The Man With The Dragon Tattoo
by Woodland Goddess
Summary: "Your life will always run in patterns, Merlin." Forged of old, tempered anew, Merlin walks a land divided by bigotry and ruled by tyranny. When the crunch comes, will he be willing to sacrifice his freedom...his life...for the sake of those he loves? Can a foe be trusted when they claim a new leaf or will Arthur's Bane rise once more? Contains slash. Don't like, don't read.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Man With The Dragon Tattoo – Chapter One.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Main Pairing: Merthur (obviously)

Side Pairings: Gwencelot, Greya (Gwaine/Freya), Mara (briefly).

Warnings (Possible): Contains Feels, Vulgar Language, Depictions of Violence, Nude Scenes and Character Death (Your heart just stopped, didn't it? I know mine did.)

Author's Note: Hello, peoples! How are you all? As you can tell, this is a new fic. You'll notice that it isn't for the HP Fandom; instead it's for BBC's Merlin (which I also fangirl over like crazy.) It's my first fic for this fandom, so if things aren't quite right, that's why; sometimes it takes me awhile to acclimatize. Feel free to let me know what you think, yeah? But you know...in a nice way, 'cause being mean isn't very nice (although I suppose that's rather the point, lol.) ^_^ This fic is set in a Contemporary Slightly Alternate Universe.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Merlin characters – if I did, the show would have ended very differently. I also don't own anything to do with the fandoms that may or may not be referenced throughout the story, because Merlin's a big nerd like me...

Chapter One: Without a Trace

Merlin sighed as he surveyed his reflection in the mirror, full-length, in his room, which was so messy his father was often surprised he could navigate his way through it without falling over. He could not help but think he looked atrocious. Admittedly, half of that was, more than likely, because he had always been ridiculously and overly self-conscious. The black jeans he wore were bought new today, purchased especially for his night out with his friends, but they were tight and uncomfortable and made him feel as though he were back in Secondary School, trying to fit in with the popular crowd. Perish the thought.

On his torso he wore a blue shirt, a black form-fitting waistcoat and a dark silver scarf. Nibbling his bottom lip, he narrowed his eyes at his reflection. He thought he looked like a rigid waiter who had been bullied into more casual wear. He was on the verge of tearing it all off, to try again, when his contemplations were interrupted by a sharp knock on the front door. _Guess there's nothing for it_, he thought darkly, hurrying out of his room to get the door. Yanking it open, it was to find himself almost knocked over by the force of an enthusiastic hug.

"Ouch," he complained, giving the girl a shove that was only half-serious. She had winded him, but it was not so bad. He remembered the first hug the girl had ever given him; that had been bad, almost crushing in its intensity, but she had meant well and that was all that mattered, really. Merlin pulled back as soon as Freya Lake gave him the chance, taking in the sight of her. She was clad in blue jeans, a black silk top with elbow-length sleeves that draped over her pale arms and gold heels. At her throat was a golden chain with a sword pendant and from her ears dangled golden hoop earrings. A handbag hung from her delicate shoulder. He could not squash the bubble of laughter that burst out of him when he noticed something shimmering at the outer corner of each dark eye. "Glitter, Freya, really?"

"Like you look any better, Dragan," said William Prince, clad in a pair of dark trousers, a white shirt and a leather jacket, as he barrelled in through the open door, pushing past his friends who still loitered in the doorway. The young man's tone was dripping with sarcasm, as usual. "You couldn't look more gay with that fucking scarf!" If that comment had been made by anyone else, he would never have made it passed the door. Will never used sexual orientation as an insult when it came to Merlin, not deliberately, because that would make him a hypocrite. The man was just a vulgar twat at times.

Merlin touched the scarf lightly with his fingers. "I actually really like this scarf; maybe that's why," he joked. The fact of Merlin's orientation had been known for some time. It had been Will, in fact, that had been subject to Merlin's first awkward fumbling attentions when they were fifteen. Neither of them were ashamed of the incident, but they knew it had, more than likely, been a result of such a close friendship, loneliness and teenage hormones. That was always a dangerous combination.

Freya had only pushed her way into their friendship three years ago, but from the moment she had arrived into their lives they had been inseparable. Merlin had met her online, quite by accident, through Harry Potter fan fiction and after a few months of private messages, it had progressed to sending friend requests on Facebook. When Merlin had learned she, too, lived in London they arranged to meet and Will had tagged along as back-up – just in case Freya turned out to be a mass-murdering, thirty year old man or something.

Many coffees, herbal teas, biscuits and nerdgasms later and here they were, ready to head out on the town together. Just the thought of it brought a grin to his face. "Figures," replied Will, eyeing the scarf like it might bite him, his earring glinting in the light. "All set?" He asked that question every time they were heading out; Merlin had a head like a sieve sometimes – he remembered the large and extremely important things, but had a tendency to forget things like his wallet or his phone. Sometimes, he thought he might lose his head if it had not been attached to the rest of him.

Merlin left a note for his father, Balinor, who lay curled up on the couch in the living room, face half-buried in the soft cushions as he snored lightly. It had been a long day at the workshop; he deserved the rest. Turning his back on the house, Merlin followed his friends out onto the street. The three of them piled into Freya's 2008 Ford Fiesta, which was black in colour. Freya was, much to her perpetual consternation, always their designated driver; they had little choice – Merlin, while he _could_ drive he did not have a licence, and Will was allergic to the responsibility involved.

They argued the fact, again, while she drove them out of Hammersmith and over to Southwark. The argument was half-arsed and filled with jokes, as usual. Parking a small distance away, Merlin and company hurried down the street towards The Isle, one of the most popular clubs in London. In all honesty, Merlin would rather have gone to the cinema, but Will had bullied him into agreeing. That was usually how it happened; Will would dig and dig and dig and finally Merlin would cave, throwing up his arms exasperatedly.

The Isle was massive and quite clearly expensively furnished, but the neon glow from several surfaces irritated Merlin's eyes. He was glad, however, that he did not inherit Primary Generalized Epilepsy from his late mother's side of the family; it would have made it impossible to withstand the presence of strobe lights, which flashed frequently through the club's atmospherically gloomy interior. When he had first been dragged to the club, he had hated it, his hackles rising for no apparent reason. His magic had swirled beneath his skin agitatedly.

There was something off about it, like the faint trace of a vaguely remembered dream about a nightmare. But he had pushed those feelings aside, forced himself to relax for the sake of his friends and now, though his magic still swirled angrily, Merlin was relatively comfortable at the club. Once the three of them had found a table, somewhere off to the left of the bar, Merlin offered to buy the first round; a double shot of whiskey for Will, a shot of Captain Morgan with fizzy orange for himself – "Seriously, could you be any more girly?" Will always offered as a complaint – and a coke for Freya, who glared at him while he grinned cheekily at her in return.

Merlin meandered his way through the crowd on the dance floor, getting closer and closer to the bar with every step he took, though it took some time. While he wanted to reach the bar as quickly as possible, he was not one for shoving people out of his way; mostly because in some instances it would result in a punch to the face. And he rather liked his face the way it was, though he was often told – by Freya – that his cheekbones looked as though they could cut through diamond. He was unsure whether that was a compliment or an insult.

Once he managed to reach the bar it was relatively smooth sailing from there. By _relatively_, he meant _not at all_. It took more than ten minutes to get the attention of the barman, who had been too busy leaning against the counter, chatting to a stunning woman whose raven hair was gathered in a stylishly untidy bun, a few dark locks spilling down to tickle her strong jaw. As if she had felt him glaring at her, she turned her face towards Merlin and smirked in a manner that seemed amused and condescending all at once.

Her faintly green eyes burned with something akin to thinly veiled recognition, but Merlin was fairly certain he had never seen her before. He would remember knowing someone pretty, but a face like hers would be imprinted on any man's brain for the rest of his life. In response to her condescension, he dipped his head in a sarcastic parody of a bow. That seemed to bring a real smile to her face and she said a few words to the barman, who was in Merlin's face a moment later, politely asking what he wanted.

Merlin rattled off the list of drinks and waited, fingers tapping a random rhythm against the bar. When they arrived, he paid for them and turned to extend his thanks to the dark-haired lady for sending the barman his way, but she had vanished. Frowning and _just_ managing to not drop the drinks as he virtually waltzed his way through the dancing crowd, determined not to bump into anyone, he made his way back towards the table. He was almost there when he tripped over his own feet, stumbling forward and knocking into the broad expanse of a man's chest.

His magic flared instantly and time came to a stop, leaving his hands tingling warmly.

_Shite_, he thought, the tone somewhere between dismay and outright panic. _Shite, shite, shite, shite, shite!_ He glanced around quickly, before looking at the man about to be soaked by the beverages splashing up out of their vessels, frozen mid-arc. He made a snap decision to salvage the situation as much as he possible could; a muttered spell had the glasses back in his hand and the drinks settling back down into their vessels as if he had never tripped in the first place. His eyes flashed with golden fire and suddenly time was moving again.

Merlin looked up from the drinks, wide-eyed, at the man before him. He was tall, though marginally shorter than Merlin himself, and his shoulders sloped with a masculine grace that any man would kill for. The blood red shirt, upper buttons undone, highlighted the torso of the man, who was built like a wardrobe, though not in a grotesque manner. A gold watch, which looked as though it would take an arm and a leg to purchase, gleamed on his sturdy wrist. His lower half was encased in well-fitted black trousers, showcasing finely-developed thighs.

Complete with a chiselled jaw, haughty nose, blond hair and eyes, blue as the sky on a fine day, he was far more attractive than a man had any right to be. It was too bad the visual was completely destroyed the moment he opened his mouth. "Watch where you're going; this shirt probably costs more than your entire wardrobe."

"Look, mate; I don't know what kind of charm school you went to, but when someone trips you're supposed to say 'are you okay? Yeah? Good, take care.'" Merlin's temper began rising as Prince Prat had the audacity to look at him like he was hardly worth a glass of water, let alone his time. Maybe he was not as pampered and rich as this man so clearly was, but that did _not_ mean he was worth less than anyone else.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" the blond drawled, blue eyes narrowing in response to Merlin's tone.

"I'm Merlin," replied the irate sorcerer with as much dignity as possible, though for some unfathomable reason he was overcome by the sense of déjà vu.

"So I don't know you."

"No."

"And yet you called me 'mate.'" The man spoke as though he thought Merlin was extremely stupid.

"That was my mistake; I'd never be mates with such an arse." Huffing indignantly, Merlin shouldered his way past Prince Prat, ignoring his shocked sputtering, and continued on his way to the table, where Will was watching, looking torn between amusement and wanting to punch the guy in the face. Freya just looked anxious, as if she expected Prince Prat to follow after him and knock him into the table. "Honestly; society these days has absolutely no understanding of kindness," Merlin complained, laying the drinks out on the table before settling himself down comfortably on the leather seat flush against the wall.

"I know what you mean," said Will, eyes still tracking Prince Prat, who was now ploughing his way through the crowd on his way to the bar. "I got up off my seat on the bus, the other day, for a pregnant lady and she didn't even say thank you; the nerve of her. The world is going to the dogs!" The drawling tone easily put the others in mind of Draco Malfoy – Will's favourite Harry Potter character. Normally, the man hated such bullying, arrogant toe-rags and he had hated Draco the first time he read the series, but as he reread the books, again and again, he noticed different things about Draco and it resulted in a passionate love and appreciation for the complexities of the pale-haired Slytherin.

Merlin frowned down at his Captain Morgan-flavoured orange and spent a few moments wondering why his magic had reacted so suddenly. His father's friend, Doctor Gaius Oldman, had spent _years_ training him to keep his magic under control, to use it only when absolutely necessary and to use it wisely. That, back there, had not been necessary, merely handy. There was just something about Prince Prat...about this place...that made his magic want to leap out of his skin at the slightest hint of trouble, minor or major.

Pushing his worries to the back of his mind, Merlin took a swig of his drink, appreciating the sharp heat of the spiced rum and the zest of the fizzy orange. He did not care, at all, that Will thought it was a girl's drink; it tasted delicious. That was not to say he never drank Captain Morgan straight, but he had to admit he preferred mixing it with carbonated minerals that sang to his sweet tooth. The three of them fell into an easy discussion, topics ranging from Harry Potter to the rise in physical beauty correlating with the decline of manners and everything in between.

After the third round of drinks – courtesy of Will – Merlin was merry enough to allow Freya to drag him out on the dance floor. He had to admit the club played some good music; there was none of that modern dance crap, but the classics blasted out of the speakers, filling the place with a wonderful energy, along with a few contemporary rock songs that fit in well with the others. They lost themselves in the gyrating, grinding crowd as _Carry on My Wayward Son_ by Kansas vibrated through their flesh and bones.

Until he had met Freya, Merlin had never been the dancing type. He had been too gangly and awkward and out of place as a teenager; he was still gangly now, but he had grown much more comfortable in his skin since then. Freya had been one of the biggest reasons for that, always cajoling him into being more outgoing. Sometimes he wondered why she had gone to such efforts, but he knew it was mainly because she thought everyone should be proud of whom they were, no matter their size, their tastes or their backgrounds.

They danced through several songs, before Merlin finally caved, the muscles in his arms and legs burning, and returned to their table, Freya following along behind him with a silly grin on her face. One would think Christmas had come early, judging by her expression. He gave her a playful shove when she joked about him stepping on her feet. She shoved him right back, though it seemed she hardly knew her own strength; the blow sent him sprawling across Will, who had been in the middle of downing his latest double of whiskey.

Will's eyes widened almost to the point of being comical, his face reddening as he started coughing. Merlin apologised as he relocated himself, laughing even as he slapped Will's back helpfully. "Fuck off," the man groused between coughs, batting Merlin's hand away, earning another laugh.

"Ungrateful swine."

Will glared at him through slightly watery eyes once the coughing had passed, but the expression did not last long and the three of them broke down into a fit of giggles that seemed to last for an eternity. "You two are just hopeless," Freya said, resting her forehead against her glass of coke to cool down, appreciating the cool beads of condensation that drenched the glass.

"Hey, now; don't forget you're part of this hopeless group, too." Merlin stuck his tongue out at her and almost bit it when Freya kicked him under the table, hard, earning a pained yelp. "Ouch!"

"Oh, don't be a baby."

"Baby, am I? Was I the one who cried when Sirius Black fell through the veil?" Merlin asked, only half-joking as he turned to Will.

"Nah, mate," he answered, eyes sparking with amusement as the girl turned sulky, "that was all her."

"Shut up; Sirius' death was traumatizing. I'm just glad we didn't get a description of Remus' death. It would have absolutely killed me. Oh, my poor babies." The sad part was that she was actually getting upset over it. Merlin reached out and patted her hand sympathetically. Freya had been a passionate Wolfstar shipper ever since she had been old enough to ship. When questioned about it, she had always been very vague, but Merlin had managed to gather that it had something to do with Remus being unable to control the beast within and Sirius being one of the few who accepted him when there were no urge-quelling potions available. Apparently, it was a magical combination.

Catching Will's eye while Freya moped, they shared a grin and began consoling her, coaxing her back to her usual level of happiness. It took some time, but they managed. Merlin sipped his drink, heat suffusing his cheeks. The phone in his back pocket vibrated sharply against his rump and Merlin reached for it. He frowned, troubled, as he opened a text from his father, which read: _Stay with friends tonight. _He had never seen four words that unnerved him so much before in his life. "Hey, what's the matter?"

Merlin glanced up at Freya, who gazed across at him in concern. Mouth contorting into an approximation of his usual cheery grin, he replied, "nothing." His friends exchanged a worried glance, but he waved their concerns away; his father more than likely just wanted a quiet night without being disturbed by a drunken lad on his way to bed. He supposed he could appreciate that. Deciding he would not let it bother him, Merlin slipped his phone back into his pocket and ignored its presence for the rest of the night.

Will and Merlin got decidedly more sloshed as the night progressed, but the sorcerer did stop before he reached his limit. Will did no such thing, continuing until he could barely stand for all of his giggles and problems with his equilibrium. It was three in the morning by the time they left, Merlin and Will half-carrying each other and half-falling as they made their way out of the club, Freya moving along behind them, hands shoving at the air behind them as if she were shepherding sheep.

They piled into Freya's car, the two men in the backseat, and in no time at all they were pulling in by the curb outside a block of flats on Cromwell Road in South Kensington. Freya ushered them up several flights of stairs and bundled them into her flat. Will and Merlin stumbled through the door, the weight of the former almost sending the latter to the floor. "You heavy oaf," Merlin joked, laughing as he shoved Will onto the couch.

"Shut up, you love me," said Will, though it took a moment for Merlin to discern his meaning through the slur of his words. He rolled his eyes, but could not stop the laugh that burst out of him when Will yanked his ankle out from under him with his foot. Merlin, all clumsy legs and arms, landed on him hard, but Will did not seem to mind this time. Freya, high on sugar, climbed atop them with a grin, proclaiming that she was queen of the rock. The two men groaned with discomfort, pushing and shoving each other in an attempt to get her off. It failed spectacularly, so Will wormed his arm around Merlin and pinched Freya's arse, sending her into the air with a flail and a squeak. "Some queen of the rock."

Laughing, Merlin pushed himself away from Will, stumbling into the second bedroom while Freya fetched a pillow and blanket for the oaf currently occupying her couch. He pulled off his clothes and climbed into the bed, snuggling down under the blankets. His body and mind, still filled with the heat and a buzz from the mix of sugar and alcohol, took awhile to calm down to a level where he could fall asleep.

_A man with blond hair stood before him, surrounded by peers as haughty as himself. It was Prince Prat – Merlin knew it, remembered the contours of his face – but he was young; too young to be the same man and yet he had to be. Merlin would never forget a face. The man was clad in a red tunic; a plate of armour rested upon his collarbone. Upon his right shoulder and both wrists were more pieces of armour. The epaulière and vambrace, respectively, Merlin knew, though how he knew that he could not fathom at the moment. The words had come unbidden to his mind, as if he had known them all along, but had forgotten for reasons unknown. _

_Slung from a belt at his waist were two sheathed swords, brushing against the brown fabric of his breeches. Large hands were hidden beneath dark leather gloves. He was arrogant, cruel, mocking to the young man before him, deigning to carry the target. It seemed, from out of nowhere, came a third man, dressed in dark breeches, blue tunic, red neckerchief and a brown coat. Merlin staggered backwards in shock, a cry wrenched from his lips; he was looking at the image of himself, though dressed in clothes from ages past. And God, there he was interceding. _

_The exchange of dialogue between Prince Prat and dream-Merlin was not dissimilar from their altercation in the club, though it went further. He watched the blond wrenching dream-Merlin's arm behind his back when the latter had bravely thrown a punch. "I'll have to throw you in jail for that." It was almost an amused purr, just loud enough for the gathered crowd to hear, loud enough to humiliate and infuriate the young man grasped in his strong hands._

"_Who do you think you are? The King?" The scoff in dream-Merlin's tone was plainly heard by the crowd, earning jeers and hisses and laughs._

"_No; I'm his son: Arthur." And real-Merlin knew his dream self was in deep...deep trouble. _

_Scenes whooshed past, some longer than others, and clearly disjointed. Merlin watched himself stop time and wrench Arthur from the path of a flying dagger, saw himself drink poison to protect the Prince, witnessed the coming of Lancelot, saw and felt his fingers brushing against Arthur's skin as he helped him dress and undress in the morning and evening, respectively, and so much in between. The images pressed heavily upon him, though they flew past, awakening thoughts...feelings that Merlin never knew he had. He wanted to reach out to the blond Prat, uncertain whether to embrace him or punch him in the face. He could not take it; his mind would implode if the force did not soon let up. _

_A voice broke through the imagery, deep and ancient and so painfully familiar that Merlin wanted to weep in relief and dread and fear all at once. "Merlin..." said the voice, rumbling through Merlin's head, sounding tired, as if it had just woken from a slumber that had lasted a thousand ages. Merlin made to call out, to answer and... _

He woke suddenly; sucking in air like a starving man fell upon food, he found himself with his face half-buried into his pillows, his gangly body spread across the whole bed, tangled in the blankets. Sweat poured down his face from the intensity of his dreams – if that, indeed, was what they were. He told himself there were no tears hidden amongst the sweat clinging to his skin. He sat up, running a shaking hand down his face, through his sweat-soaked, tangled hair. He could not shake the images from his dream; they were there, in his mind, as strong as any of his memories – as if he had lived them before and had taken a dive into a pensieve to relive them.

But that was just ridiculous.

"You must have drunk too much last night, after all," he murmured to himself, voice unbearably loud even to his own ears. His mouth was as dry as sandpaper and he had a pulsating headache; he could hardly imagine how much more intensely Will had be suffering on the couch. He groaned and struggled to get himself out of bed and into his clothes, before trudging out of the room in search of Freya's bathroom. After relieving himself and spending a few minutes peering blearily at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, Merlin escaped to the kitchen.

A plate of greasy food was waiting for him, guarded by Freya, who did not look at all threatening while armed with a grease-smeared spatula. It seemed Will had woken before he did, for he was sitting at one side of the table, alternating between eating a sandwich, filled with fried rashers, sausages and other greasy things, and inhaling his large mug of steaming coffee – black, with two sugars. Merlin's stomach churned at the sight of his plate, the feeling made worse when Will grinned at him mid-chew, bits of food sticking out through his teeth.

Grimacing, Merlin sat down opposite his friend of many years and stared at him for a long moment. If Will was unnerved by this behaviour he made no comment about it, choosing instead to continue munching on his sandwich, which was so big Merlin was surprised it could even fit in his mouth. In the background, Freya pottered around as she fetched her own food – lunch for her, it would seem. He looked over at her scrambled egg and baked beans and licked his lips. "Back off," she said, seating herself at the table, pointing the spatula at him menacingly. "Eat your grease; it'll do you good."

"You are such a buzz-kill."

"You love it; I know." Freya smiled at him, then, though for some reason there seemed to be an edge of sadness to it. Merlin could not fathom why, but knew that if she wished to talk about anything, she would do so. She always did; Freya trusted Merlin in ways that she trusted no one else – not even Will. In an attempt to make her feel better, Merlin began eating his greasy food, smiling appreciatively when a can of coke was laid down in front of him. The meal continued without much incident and Merlin felt much better for imbibing his breakfast and coke, followed by half a jug of chilled tap water, the other half of which was taken by Will.

They stayed at Freya's for the rest of the day, helping her cook dinner when the time came, before they relocated to the couch. Together, they watched several episodes of Doctor Who on DVD; there was nothing quite like a mad man with a big blue box. The show was confusing and hilarious and suspenseful. The kid with the gas mask freaked Merlin out the most, though he would never admit it aloud. When he finally made his way home – via the bus – it was with a happy heart; the dreams from earlier that day had been almost completely forgotten.

The house, when he arrived, was quiet and dark. His brow creasing in worry, Merlin approached the front door cautiously, calling his magic forward so that it was just beneath the surface of his fingertips, ready to be used in either defence or offence. When he pushed on the front door it was to find it unlocked, swinging forward on silent hinges. "Dad," he called out, stepping inside, his fingers tingling with magic waiting to be used. There came no answer, but there could be a multitude of reasons for that.

His father could simply have forgotten to lock the door on his way to the workshop. There could have been a break-in while his father was at work with the other carpenters. Really, it could be anything; Merlin did not have to jump to the most terrible scenarios. He called out again, a whispered spell causing the lights to switch on without his touch. The living room and kitchen were tidy, but obviously lived in. Merlin continued through the house, searching every room but coming up empty.

His father's bedroom looked as though it had never been slept in. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Merlin first called the workshop and then his father's mobile phone, neither of which were answered, and then punched in the number for Gaius' mobile phone, who mercifully had the day off. It took a moment but the old physician eventually answered. "What?"

Merlin grinned in amusement, despite the situation; the good Doctor had never been one for phone pleasantries. "Gaius," Merlin replied in greeting, getting immediately to the matter at hand, though he could not help but think about those dream-memories as he did so. Gaius had been in them, too; the very same and yet completely different at the same time. "I think we have a problem; Dad's not here , he's not answering his mobile and no one's picking up at the workshop. Dad's the only one who has a key, so if he's not there no one else can get in."

Silence fell between them, thick with meaning. "That's not like him," said Gaius at last.

"No," Merlin agreed. "I'm worried, Gaius; last night he sent me a text telling me to stay with friends for the night. That's not like him either."

"Alright, I'm on my way out of the house. I'll stop by your Dad's haunts, just to be sure and if I haven't found him by the time I arrive at yours, call the police and file a missing person's report." Gaius hung up without another word, leaving Merlin feeling indescribably bereft. There was nothing left for him to do, but sit in the kitchen and wait as patiently as he could. His phone lay on the table in front of him and he watched it intently, willing it to ring with news that Gaius had found his father.

But he had no such luck. An hour and a half after their phone call had come to an end, Gaius barrelled in through the front door without even knocking. Merlin looked up, an irrational hope looming, as the kitchen door opened. But the physician was alone, his shoulders hunched with defeat. The hope that bloomed in Merlin's chest sputtered to a painful death at the sight. He reached for his phone as Gaius began pottering around the kitchen, filling the electric kettle with water from the tap and gathering the necessary accoutrements for making tea.

The young sorcerer hesitated, watching Gaius for a long moment. He differed from the dream-version of himself in several ways; his hair was cut short, quite close to his head; glasses with rectangular lenses rested upon his shrewd nose; he had far less wrinkles, for he was younger and seemed to carry less weight upon his ageing shoulders. A wedding ring glinted in the artificial light with his every movement. He had married a woman named Alice in his youth. Sometimes, they would look at him and share an indecipherable glance between them; it always made him feel as though they knew something important about him that he did not.

"That call's not going to make itself, my boy," said Gaius, gently, as the kettle came to the boil, the power clicking off. Merlin startled and had the grace to look sheepish. "Merlin, is there something troubling you – other than the obvious, of course?"

"Just some weird dreams; nothing important. We can talk about them later." The reply was quiet, almost too quiet, but it made Gaius look up at him so suddenly it was as if Merlin had said he wanted to dress in drag and do the hula on Christmas morning. The physician's blue eyes virtually sparkled behind their lenses. He looked as though he were struggling not to grin like an idiot and Merlin just stared at him, unable to fathom why. They were not exactly in the most humorous situation.

Shaking his head, Merlin left him alone to whatever thought had him in such a good mood and phoned the police station. The man he spoke with, Detective Inspector Lott, sounded familiar, yet for the life of him he could not place the voice. It was rather like the sensation he felt when at The Isle, but much more pleasant – and not just because he had a voice viable for phone sex. When the officer asked for his name, the man almost choked on the coffee he must have been drinking during the call. "What?" he asked after a moment, a tone of disbelief ringing plainly through his Irish lilt.

Merlin closed his eyes in frustration. This always happened. "I said my name is Merlin Dragan. D-R-A-G-A-N."

"Yeah, yeah; I got that bit. Seriously...your name is Merlin...? Like the wizard?"

_Good God, kill me now, _he thought. Sighing as his patience dwindled the longer he was on the phone, Merlin replied, "yeah... I don't see why it's so unbelievable. There's a subset of falcon called Merlin; it's a good name to have. Falcons are cool. Bird of prey, my friend, bird of prey." Merlin's tone was crisp at this point.

"I know that." Merlin could hear the man's smirk all the way through the phone. "You know, I knew a man named Merlin once – quite a long time ago – and he was very brave and not nearly as much of an incompetent idiot as he led my friends and I to believe." Silence fell for a moment and Merlin could almost hear the cogs whirring around the man's brain. "But moving swiftly on; my partner and I will be there directly, since we're nearing the end of our shift and will be leaving anyway. Cheerio!"

The officer hung up and Merlin lowered his phone, staring at it as if it were about to jump up and bite him. Detective Inspector Lott not only sounded familiar, but had spouted two of the numerous insults Prince Prat – _Arthur_, his brain murmured traitorously – had used in his dreams. This could hardly be a coincidence. "Merlin...it's not a snake; it's not going to jump up and bite you when you least expect it. I don't think you need to burn holes in that poor phone with your eyes." Slowly, Merlin raised his head and treated Gaius to the same stare as the physician settled a cup of tea down in front of him. "Now...tell me more about these dreams."

So Merlin did.

To Be Continued

Wow...longer than my usual chapters are. I am pleased.

Reviews are like cookies; may I have some? Please?


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Man With The Dragon Tattoo – Chapter Two.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Author's note: Thanks for reading and reviewing and for your patience, guys. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

Chapter Two: More Than a Feeling

The normally stern expression on Gaius' face softened and he reached across the table to rest his hand upon Merlin's, which twitched infinitesimally against the tabletop. "I had dreams like those once, in my youth, when I first met Alice. It was very confusing, but I must confess that it took me years to understand they weren't dreams at all, Merlin. They are psychic echoes, reverberating through time, waiting for a convergence of pre-destined lifelines that correspond to similar ones in the distant past. Sometimes, the convergence happens and others...they do not. No one can explain it; most don't even realise these things occur."

Merlin pulled his hand away and rested it on his lap, looking down at his half-empty cup of tea, now cold. "I don't suppose you can tell me why it's happening, now, of all times?" He looked up, noticing the flicker of indecipherable emotion flashing across the physician's face.

"I'm afraid not; this...is one of those things you need to discover on your own. I can't help you, no matter how much I might want to." There was something Gaius was not telling him and Merlin narrowed his eyes at the thought, but he let the matter rest. There was not much that could be done about it, after all. Gaius continued speaking, then. "Now, as the days progress you will start to remember more and more of this previous existence, sometimes even during the day. Don't be alarmed if you start getting headaches; it's all normal. Alice and I both suffered them during our echoes...and your parents."

With a sharp inhalation Merlin rose from the chair, turning his back on the physician. Resting his curled fingers against his chin, he closed his eyes and thought back to when he was a child, before the accident that had taken his mother from him, before they had moved to London. He could remember their argument – God, it had been so loud and so full of anger. Sometimes, it still made his lungs constrict in his chest in remembered terror; it was the main reason why he hated thinking of it. His mother had yelled and screamed so loudly and his father had done the same, his eyes flashing gold with latent power that never came to the surface.

The subject of the argument had been Merlin; always him. Hunith had claimed his father never spent enough time with him, that he never went to parent-teacher meetings or sporting events or took Merlin to extracurricular classes, that he would rather spend all his days at the workshop than allow their presence to remind him of the past. His father's step back and wounded expression suddenly made a shitload more sense, because Balinor had doted upon Merlin whenever he was around. He had never felt unloved by the man, or unwanted.

Merlin remembered hiding under the kitchen table, too afraid to come out. "Someone has to earn money around here," Balinor had snapped, voice hard and unforgiving as he glared at his wife. "All you do is stay at home all day."

"That's not all I do! I do plenty; house-work; cooking – your dinner by the way; taking _him_ to and from school, to his Origami lessons, to his play dates; getting an earful of irritating children's programmes all day, every day – all while you're off gallivanting with Gaius or drinking with the boys or hidden away in your workshop with your stupid tools and bits of wood you've carved into Dragons! Have you any idea how bloody stressful and difficult being a stay-at-home mom _is_? I can't go _anywhere_ without taking him with me! And all you do is leave! You always leave."

There had been tears streaming down Hunith's face as her voice cracked on the last few words to spill from her lips. "I was trying to keep you safe," was his father's response, just as broken as his mother's words. "If Uther had learned you were harbouring me, your life would have been forfeit. What would you have had me do? The life of a fugitive was not a life I would have ever chosen for you."

"That should have been my decision to make, not yours," she had answered, running the back of her hand across her face. "Being a woman doesn't mean I don't have the right to choose my own destiny... I need...I'll be back later. He's had dinner, but I told him you'd give him some ice cream." That had been the last time Merlin had seen his mother alive, the last time Balinor had heard his wife speak. Her car had ended up a crumpled mess – through no fault of her own. The driver at fault had escaped the accident with broken ribs, a punctured lung, a crushed leg and some head trauma.

Hunith had lost her life; Merlin had been only six years old.

Neither of them forgave the driver that had survived the accident and neither of them forgave themselves. Though they always told each other they were not to blame for her death, neither of them really believed it. The very idea that the argument had been more about their past life together than about Merlin lifted a fraction of the weight from his narrow shoulders. It made so much sudden sense that he wanted nothing more than to punch his fist through the wall or send Mount Everest crumbling in on itself.

Neither event occurred. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, fingers digging into his elbows. "Why didn't they tell me?"

"Would you have believed them if they had?" Gaius queried, causing the young sorcerer to turn and face him. He was treated with the age-old eyebrow lift and pinch of mouth that was familiar in more ways than one.

"Probably not; it's a bit ridiculous. It's kind of like in _Doctor Who_, where that one – Gwen Cooper – from _Torchwood_ looked identical to that maid back in December of 1869. What did they call it? Er..." Merlin wracked his brains desperately, searching for the phrase he needed. "Oh! They called it partial genetic multiplicity – an echo and repetition of physical traits across a Time Rift."

"You young things can make references out of every situation," said the physician, a glimmer of irritation peaking through his tone, "but yes...it's like that – sort of – but psychologically and emotionally, too. You're virtually the same man in a modern world – tempered by the times we live in now, but forged of old."

"Like a sword." Merlin's mouth suddenly dried up as the image of a dangerous-looking blade with a golden pommel flashed across his mind, so he moved toward the sink, fetching himself a glass of cold water from the tap. _Excalibur_; the word bounced around Merlin's insides, though he knew very well that the blade had never been referred to by that name in reality. He shook his head to clear his mind of the image and hastily swallowed several mouthfuls of water, easing the dryness of his mouth adequately enough for the moment.

A heavy silence fell upon the kitchen, neither sorcerer making a move to break it. Instead, they waited for the arrival of Inspector Lott and his partner. When the knock finally came Merlin was torn between feeling relieved and wanting to vomit into the kitchen sink. Taking a deep breath, he went out to the front door and pulled it open, revealing two men. The one closest to Merlin looked like he would be as comfortable modelling underwear as he would wearing the nicely tailored black trousers, white shirt, dark tie and long light brown trench coat.

The hair on his face was exceptionally attractive, considering how much Merlin detested facial hair. The man's dark locks, long enough to touch his jaw, looked windswept and tempting. All in all, he looked very familiar, but Merlin was unable to put a name to him, though it was dancing on the tip of his tongue – like something he knew but had temporarily forgotten. Warm brown eyes flicked downwards and back up, before turning to the man's partner, who was equally impressive but in a different manner.

This second man was taller than the first and built like a boulder. His hair was shorter, cut quite close to his skin, and lighter in colour. He looked as though he could cause the Statue of Liberty's head to crumble spectacularly with a squeeze of his muscular thighs. He was dressed in a similar fashion to the first and had blue eyes that looked so murky Merlin mistook them for grey. The look he exchanged with the first was mildly disconcerting. "I like the boulder you brought with you, Detective; it's very deceptively disguised," said Merlin in an attempt at humour, knowing his staring at the policemen was not helping the situation.

The officer with the mop of brown hair let out a huff of laughter, before extending his right hand, fingers curled at first as if to beckon for something before straightening out. "Detective Inspector Lott, at your service, Mr Dragan. I'd say it was a pleasure to meet you...but considering the circumstances, I think I'll pass on that one."

Merlin did not hesitate and grasped the proffered hand. A rush of jumbled sentiment flooded through him and a word blurted out of his mouth before his brain could catch up. "Gwaine!"

"Excellent," the man, Gwaine, replied cheerfully. A pleased grin blossomed on his face and he shouldered his way past Merlin without so much as a by your leave, Boulder following along behind him with a contented smile tugging at his mouth. "The recollections are kicking in. I thought you might be the Merlin we knew before – the name's so distinctive, after all – and here you are, the same as ever. Though I'm sure you'll recall who he is in time, this is my partner, Detective Inspector Percy Vale."

The men proceeded into the kitchen, a confused and slightly breathless Merlin trailing after them. Gaius recognised them immediately, an expression of delight crossing his face even as Gwaine and Percy exclaimed in surprise at the sight of him. The manliest of group hugs occurred right in the middle of Merlin's kitchen, then, while the young sorcerer watched, absolutely bewildered. After a long moment Gwaine turned once more to Merlin, his expression turning serious. "Normally, I would have asked you to come down to the station in the morning, but...I decided to make an exception this once, because of your name. Glad I did."

Sitting down at the kitchen table, Gwaine took off his coat, resting it on the back of his chair. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket he withdrew a small notebook and a pen. "Let's get down to business, shall we?" He pointed at Merlin and then gestured towards one of the empty chairs. "Take a seat." Frowning at being ordered about in his own home, Merlin sat and so the interrogation began, while Percy took a leisurely look around the house, eyes flicking observantly in every direction, soaking up whatever information he saw.

"What's your father's full name and does he have any aliases?"

"Balinor Abelard Dragan – he's got German and Ukrainian roots, respectively. As for aliases...he's got a nickname. His friends call him The Dragon."

"Place and date of birth?"

"Cardiff, Wales. First of May, 1967."

"Can you give me a complete description of him, including distinctive features, such as tattoos, birthmarks or scars?" Gwaine paused in his note-taking, brown eyes glancing up expectantly towards Merlin, who nodded vigorously and launched into an immediate description of his father. He waxed lyrical about the tattoo on his father's back, chest and shoulders – a large brown Dragon with bright yellow eyes that had often made Merlin feel as though he were being watched whenever his father took his shirt off when they would commute to the beach.

It had been his father's tattoo that had inspired Merlin to get one of his own when he was eighteen, though considerably smaller and less ostentatious. It was a small swirl on his left shoulder, which looked like it had been cut off from the rest of the tattoo. It was incomplete, but he liked it. The tattoo artist had looked at him as though he was crazy, but that had been fine. Pushing the nostalgic thoughts away from his mind, Merlin focused on describing the distinctive scar on his father's right arm.

"It looks like some wild animal got a hold of him and ripped a section of his flesh off in four long strips across his forearm. I was told it was a carpentry accident, but I know that's complete bollocks. Er, I mean...rubbish." The young sorcerer flashed an apologetic smile at Gaius, who snorted loudly into his recently brewed cup of coffee – Gwaine was also nursing one, now, though Percy had graciously declined when he poked his head around the jamb.

"When did you last see him and have you heard from him since?"

"I left here at around ten last night – went clubbing with my friends – and Dad was sleeping on the couch at the time. Sometime later he sent me a text telling me to stay with my friends for the night, which isn't really like him. Usually it's only things like, 'don't get too shitfaced' or 'mind the big rocks' because he has an alarming love for _Robin Hood: Men in Tights_ and likes to throw quotes at me – I get that from him, the blasted sod."

"You're really fond of rambling, aren't you?" Gwaine teased, brown eyes sparkling as a grin pulled at his mouth. The questions continued and Merlin gave honest answers to each of them, sometimes having to dart upstairs to his father's room to get bank details or a photograph. As soon as the questions were done with, Gwaine drained the last of his coffee and rose from his chair, donning his coat. "I think we're done here for now –" the man began, only to be interrupted by his partner.

"Not quite," said Percy, coming into the kitchen fully. "Merlin, I noticed you have some security cameras set up in the main traffic areas of the house and the driveway. Have you looked at the recordings since you came home from your friend's place?"

The tips of his ears flushing pink, Merlin looked anywhere but at the officers of the law. He reluctantly admitted, "No; half of them don't work anymore – we've been meaning to call someone in to do something about it, but never got around to it – and the other half...well...let's just say that the DVR and I have never been an example of a good friendship."

"Do the cameras in the living room, hall and driveway work?"

"...I hope so..."

Percy looked torn between amusement and wanting to slap the back of Merlin's head. Instead, he made his way to the living room, Gwaine and Merlin following along behind him, the latter too embarrassed for words. The boulder-like Detective Inspector picked up one of the remotes. With calm precision he brought up the video recordings from the hall, living room and driveway. The other squares were grey, the camera symbols sat in the corners with angry red lines running through them.

Percy rewound the recordings to the point where Merlin was approaching the front door to meet his friends. It took quite a while to get to that point. The three of them watched carefully, one focusing on each of the camera feeds. The recording that Merlin watched showed him and his friends crossing the driveway, climbing into Freya's car and then nothing for two hours when another car pulled up, black like Freya's but quite obviously newer and more expensive. The driver and passenger moved as if to get out...paused and then they were off driving again.

Which Merlin thought was very strange, indeed.

On Gwaine's screen it showed Balinor's feet dangling over the arm of the couch and Percy's, after some time, showed Balinor pulling his jacket on, leaving the house. The young sorcerer glared at the video recordings, not liking the implication it showed. "So...he willingly left the property, after all." Gwaine sighed and glanced at him. "Merlin, are you _sure_ something foul's afoot, because the evidence clearly states otherwise."

"Positive. The only thing that recording proves is that something weird is going on. My Dad wouldn't leave the house and not return; not like this. He would let me know if he was going anywhere – we're the only family we have left since we moved away from Cardiff."

"What am I? Chopped liver?" Gaius groused from the kitchen, earning a smile from the men gathered in the living room.

"Oh, you know what I mean!" The response earned a loud and disgruntled harrumph. Gwaine grinned and Merlin shook his head fondly. "So...what do we do now?"

Percy rubbed the skin under his right eye with the back of his curled index finger, mouth contorting oddly at the motion. "Well," he said carefully, his calm voice strangely soothing, "Gwaine and I will have a look 'round, question some people, keep an eye on his financial transactions and put APW out on him. You...can sit tight here for a while and keep an eye out for anything new, alright? As soon as we know anything, we'll call you and if you learn anything new in the mean time, let us know."

Eyebrows dipping steeply and forehead wrinkling in a frown, Merlin replied, "Is that all? You're not going to do a nationwide manhunt or anything?"

"For all we know, your father could have just needed a holiday and decided to skip town for a bit. If no new leads arise in the next few days, there won't be much we can do; he's a grown man and can leave whenever he wants. If he were a teenager or a child, there'd be more done. It's unfortunate, but a necessity; we can't be bogged down with cases that will go nowhere." Grey eyes burned with a quiet sympathy, but Percy's mouth was set in a firm line. There would be no swaying him unless magic was involved, but under the current government the use of magic was still seven kinds of illegal – the Prime Minister, Aredian "Ian" Killer was an intense Rhabdophobe.

He was glad no one had come looking for him after the incident at The Isle. His body was very distinctive, even in the gloomy atmosphere of a nightclub, but he supposed it was early days yet. He should not count his chickens before they hatched and all that rot. "Are you sure that's enough?"

Gwaine shrugged, cutting Percy off. "No idea, to be honest, Merlin; it depends on the case usually. But we're hopeful and you should be too." He gave the young sorcerer a small encouraging smile. "You know what they say about positive thinking," he said, head tilting slightly as he winked. After a moment he sobered up. "Don't be a stranger, Merlin; feel free to call any time, even if it has nothing to do with the case." Gwaine retrieved his notebook and pen once more, tearing off the back page and scribbling his name and number on it. "See you around!"

With that Gwaine made his way to the front door, waving at him before he vanished from sight. Percy saluted him and followed after his partner, muscles rippling under the fabric of his clothes. Following them out to the hallway Merlin watched them go, wondering why he felt so sad at the prospect of their leaving; he hardly knew them, after all – at least, not in this life. It seemed he had known them quite well in his previous existence, enough for them to be pleased to be reacquainted with him in this new age.

It was disconcerting to be remembered when one cannot remember meeting someone before in your life. Merlin rubbed his jaw lightly with one hand. Still lost in thought he was unaware of Gaius making them both some sandwiches, filled with cooked ham and grated red cheddar from the local shop. "Get those down you," Gaius ordered gruffly, coming out to fetch him with a firm hand and pulling him back towards the kitchen, "before you fall over, my boy."

"I won't fall over. I'm excellent at keeping my balance." His feet chose that exact moment to make a fool out of him, tripping him up. It was only Gaius' hand that kept him upright.

"How you've managed to survive this long is a mystery to me."

"Your confidence in me is inspiring."

"I'm sure."

"You can let go of my arm, now; I'm fine," said Merlin as they crossed the threshold into the kitchen. Gaius lifted his brow disparagingly, but released him as ordered. He watched as Merlin settled himself down on one of the chairs, digging into his plate of neatly cut sandwich triangles. Gaius did the same, treating him to a brief pinched mouth before focusing his attention on his food. Merlin made a face around his mouthful of sandwich. "These sandwiches taste like arse."

"And I suppose you'd know all about that." Merlin almost choked at that response, unable to believe that Gaius had just said that. The old physician started laughing at his reaction, his large white teeth visible. For a brief moment his father's disappearance was forgotten. "But if it makes you feel better, the ham was sweating a little in the packet. It tastes funny, but its fine mostly – better than soapy bathwater at any rate." The man's blue eyes sparkled intensely and Merlin grinned despite himself, recalling the necessity of eating stew made from his used bathwater during the outbreak of the plague caused by the Afanc in Camelot's water supply.

For some time Merlin sat in the kitchen with Gaius, asking questions about the dreams, but the older sorcerer could provide no answers, much to his frustration. When the first twinge of a headache began rearing its ugly head he took some paracetamol and retired to his room, once he had secured a promise from Gaius that he would stay the night. While he did not need his hand held, he appreciated the feeling that he was not alone in the house, which lacked the familiar sounds of his father's snoring.

Merlin stripped off his clothes, shaking away the feeling that it was not his own clothes he should be removing. Running his hand through his hair, he sank into the welcoming comfort of his bed, which for some reason he thought was far too soft. Just like the previous night, succumbing to the need to sleep resulted in the upsurge of images from his previous existence, forced to watch his own life as if they were being displayed on two screens, one showing himself lying on a bed, surrounded by Gwen and Gaius, in the throes of a deadly fever, sweat-soaked, chest heaving, while the other showed Prince Arthur riding off towards the only thing that could save him with an almost insane desperation...and much more.

Three days passed in this manner, plagued by dreams that filled up his memory banks, fresher than they should be, at night and distracted by phantom touches and headaches during the day. On top of that there was no sign of Balinor. His phone was constantly ringing – the men, who worked with him, as well as his friends, had Merlin's number in case of an emergency. With each explanation the reality of the situation settled more heavily upon Merlin's shoulders. Every single one of them oscillated between being upset and asking him if he needed anything.

Merlin's response was always the same: "I need my Dad back." They should have been able to understand his position on the matter, but they were often offended by the tone he used, but he could not help himself. He would like to see them in his situation and see how nice they were when dealing with a mountain-load of calls. Well...no, that was a lie. He would hate to see anyone in the situation he was in. Worse still, Gaius had taken liberty to inform Will and Freya about it, even though he would rather they be uninvolved.

He was not exactly the best person to be around at the moment. Between his father's disappearance and the headaches that plagued him, his friendly demeanour had evaporated. But Will and Freya were determined to be there for him, going so far as to drag him out and distract him or cook meals for him – Will would usually handle breakfast or lunch, while Freya handled the more elaborate dinners – and provide some company in the evenings, trying to keep his spirits up in vain.

Merlin _was_ grateful, even if that did not appear to be so, but by the third day it was getting ridiculous. Sitting on the stairs, he glared down at the slip of paper clenched in his hand. Gwaine and Percy had not called once over the course of the past few days and he was uncertain what that meant. He debated the pros and cons of punching in Gwaine's number and calling him to up to ask him how everything was going, but he did not want to call them up without any new information to give them.

He had learned nothing over the past few days and he knew that was a bad sign. It meant that either Balinor did not want to be found or his abductor was exceedingly clever. Merlin was betting on the latter, of course; he could not bear the idea that his father would walk out of his life like this. It was possible that the police were faring no better...if they were even trying. But Gwaine and Percy had seemed like good men; he knew they, at least, would try to find him as best as they could, though Merlin knew, too, that there was only so much that they could do.

Giving in to the growing temptation, Merlin called the Detective Inspector up. He gave Gwaine no time to offer those standard greetings, instead choosing to open the conversation with, "have you found anything?"

"Ah, it's you, Merlin; I was wondering when you'd call." The smile could be almost heard through the phone. A frown quickly followed. "I was just about to call you, actually. We _have _found something, but you're not going to like it at all. Your father's car was found this morning, ditched just inside the Welsh borders. It appears he might just have returned to Wales for a while, to get away from it all."

"But that doesn't make sense! My Dad wouldn't just up and leave!"

"I told you, you wouldn't like it. Merlin..."

"No; shut up. I know what you're going to say; that he left before. Well, I've got news for you. That was a completely different life, one where leaving was necessary for my mother's safety. He didn't even know about me, then." This was one of the things he had remembered during the past few days, though as usual it was just one out of many disjointed memories. "There were so many chances for him to leave in this life, but he didn't, so don't you dare tell me he just did a runner because I know better. My Dad wouldn't go back to Wales, ever; my Mum died there. Whoever's behind this is either really clever or very good with magic – anyone who says otherwise is a dirty lying liar who lies. Personally, I think it's the magic option."

A heavy silence fell between them, where Merlin glared down at his shoes and Gwaine did God knew what. Finally, the Detective Inspector spoke up again. "I'm not saying he did a runner; I'm saying it appears that way – and that's all that matters to these guys up here. I'm trying my best, Merlin, I swear, but there's only so much that Percy and I can do. But I think I might be able to send you to someone who could be able to do more for you and your Dad, since you're so adamant on this. Get a pen and paper, would you?"

He scrambled to do as asked, almost tripping in his eagerness. Will and Freya gaped at him when he passed, their eyes burning with questions he was unable to answer at the moment. Once he had a pen and some paper he told Gwaine to fire away. The Detective Inspector rattled off an address, repeating it a second time as Merlin hastily took it down. "Go there; speak to the man in charge."

"What's his name?"

He could feel Gwaine's smirk down through the phone. "You'll find out. Now, be a good boy, Merlin; don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Merlin snorted, a wash of familiar and pleasant sensations flooding him. "I don't think there's anything you wouldn't do."

Gwaine's smirk broadened. "True. Anyways, thanks for calling; it's nice to hear from you, despite the situation. Maybe...when this is all over, we could meet up for drinks sometime?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Merlin's mouth. "Somehow, I can't imagine it's wise to let you loose in a tavern." A bark of laughter came in response, before they exchanged goodbyes. Hanging up, he sought out his friends. "Freya, Will, get in the car; we need to see a man about a case." There was a hasty, if bewildered scramble at his words. Merlin rushed them out the front door, locking up behind them and hopped into the passenger seat, leaving Will on his own in the back.

He handed Freya the address – a building in Knightsbridge – and she frowned at it, glancing at Merlin suspiciously as she put the keys in the ignition. "Are you secretly shagging a Prince or business tycoon or something?"

"Don't be ridiculous; if Merlin was shagging someone you'd be the first to know, because he'd be squealing like a schoolgirl alongside you."

"Oh, my God; fuck off, you arse," replied Merlin, though he could not stop the tinge of pink from touching the high ridges of his cheeks. A pair of blue eyes and a shock of blond hair flashed in his mind, but he quickly squashed it down. He was not going there in a million years. Will threw his head back and laughed when Merlin flipped him the bird. Neither of them spoke again during the journey; Merlin was lost in thought and Will seemed to suddenly find the loose threads of his seatbelt utterly fascinating. Freya continued to frown, peering out through the windscreen as they drove through London to their destination.

They parked in the first available area, hopped out of the car and continued on foot. Merlin felt steadily more uncomfortable as they passed a large number of high-end storefronts. The man, which Gwaine had sent him to, was clearly rolling in money and that was an unnerving thought. Any self-respecting rich man would throw Merlin out on his ridiculously large ears. When they finally reached the address Gwaine had given him it was to find themselves standing in front of a very distinguished and exceptionally impressive building of grey stone.

His stomach did strange little flip-flops at the sight of it and, though he could not fathom why, he thought it should have towers. When Merlin hesitated Freya grabbed his arm and gave him a look before dragging him in through the revolving door, Will following behind them, smirking mysteriously at Merlin's back. The young sorcerer could feel it burning into his shoulders. The revolving door emitted them out into a grand entryway that looked fit for a Prince. Merlin noted the vibrant red carpet with golden fleur-de-lis embossed on it, spaced evenly.

His gaze stretched out across the carpet, finding the large and expensive-looking receptionist's desk. Sitting behind the desk, fingers curling in her dark hair as she spoke to whoever was at the other end of the headset gracing her head, was a woman. Her pretty mouth was smiling and her dark eyes sparkled in delight. A small laugh escaped her as she swivelled on her chair childishly, brown skin gleaming in the light filtering through the glass on the revolving door. Merlin recognised her immediately and wanted to do nothing more than to turn tail and run.

Freya must have known what he was thinking for her grasp on his arm tightened, nails digging into his skin threateningly. Beside him, Will seemed inordinately pleased. He was about to ask what he was so happy about when Gwen, the receptionist, glanced up. Merlin swallowed thickly as a storm of emotions flashed across her face at the sight of him. She choked out a hasty goodbye, informing the other conversationalist that she would call them back as soon as possible. She ripped the headset from her head and stumbled up from her chair, coming around the desk in a flurry of fabric and hurried footsteps.

"Merlin," she said, her voice trembling as though she might cry at any moment. "Oh, God; I can't believe you're here. Not that I don't want you here, of course! I mean, I just...I can't believe it!" Then she was crying and flinging herself upon him, causing him to stiffen, rigid hands rising to find her shoulders so that he could push her away. He might recognise her from the disjointed memories of his past life, but they were not friends in this one. But he found himself embracing her instead, melting into her arms after a brief moment. "I thought we'd never find you!"

"We?" Merlin's voice cracked slightly, his eyes stinging as Gwen's arms tightened around him, her hands fisting the fabric of his brown jacket. "There are more of you here?"

"A whole bunch of us!" His heart pounded in his chest at the thought and knew he had to get out of there before he was completely overwhelmed by the day's discovery. And Gwaine had known all along. God, he wanted to punch the git in the face for this. After a long moment of embracing and sniffling and trembling, Gwen finally retreated, about to run her hand across her face when Will – of all people – extended a handkerchief towards her as if he had pulled it out of the air. Gwen stared at him for a moment, accepting it and then she exclaimed in recognition, throwing her arms around him too.

Merlin watched the interaction, bewildered, as Will returned the embrace lightly, less enthusiastic than the dark-haired beauty in his arms. They knew each other? The thought had not even crossed his mind during the last few days, but here he was, greeted with irrefutable evidence. "It's good to see you, too, Gwen, but I'm afraid we came here for a reason. I'm sure Merlin will explain."

Gwen turned towards the third person in Merlin's group and they briefly introduced themselves, extending a polite hand in greeting. Merlin felt a bit better now that he could see that not everyone he knew was acquainted with each other. The former maidservant to the Lady Morgana looked at Merlin, then captured his hand in hers. "Come," she said firmly. "You can tell me everything over a cup of tea and some biscuits." Gwen pulled him over to the receptionist's desk and picked up the headset, pressing a button at the side. "I need to leave the desk for a moment; can someone come down and cover it while I'm gone? Really?! Thanks so much, Leon!"

She hung up, left the headset on the desk and led Merlin towards the staircase which stood off to the side, made of lovely white marble, curving along the wall as it led upstairs. A tall man with ginger hair and neatly trimmed facial hair passed them on their way up and he did a double take, almost taking a tumble down the stone steps...

To Be Continued.

Notes: Rhabdophobia, or the fear of magic, is a highly personalized phobia that means different things to different people. Some people are afraid only of magic, the purportedly real version in which spell casters make things happen according to their will. Others fear illusions, or stage magic, in which the magician uses trickery to make it seem as though odd things are happening. Still others are afraid of a very specific type of stage magic known as geek magic or bizarre magic.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Man with the Dragon Tattoo – Chapter Three.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Author's Notes: I hope you guys are enjoying the story; I know I'm enjoying writing it.

Chapter Three: One More Chance

Gwen led them to a room just off the main offices – for what, exactly, Merlin still had no idea – after a few moments of conversation with Leon Carr, the man who had almost taken a tumble on the stairs. Merlin was glad to be out of his vicinity; it had been horrible having to stand there while the ginger man had stared at him as though he had seen a ghost before being graced with the most maniacal grin he had ever seen. Will was ceaselessly amused and Freya just looked too nervous to say anything; that was typical of her.

The room they were in now was small in comparison to the others, but still bigger than Merlin's kitchen at home. There was a round table – Will let out a bark of laughter at the sight of it – in the middle of the room and beyond it were an array of cupboards and counters and kitchen appliances. It was the staff kitchen and that did not ease Merlin's discomfort in the slightest. Gwen pushed him down onto the nearest chair, his friends opting to sit on either side of him, and pottered around, putting the kettle on and filling a small plate with a mountain of different kinds of biscuits.

He looked at her suspiciously, wondering if this was her subtle way of trying to fatten him up. He said nothing about it, though; she seemed the type to cry over such dark aspersions of her character. Dutifully, he plucked a Jammie Dodger from the plate even as she pushed three steaming mugs of tea towards her guests. "Now," she said, wrapping her own dark hands gracefully around her cup of tea, "start at the beginning and don't leave anything out. I'll need to know everything before I can take it to the boss."

Merlin's insides squirmed and he paused mid-biscuit to glare down at his traitorous abdomen. He had a feeling he knew who the boss was, but really did not want to find out whether he was correct any time soon. He swallowed his mouthful of half-crushed biscuit, cringing as the sharp bits dug into his throat and took a sip of tea to wash it down. Gwen was watching him, eyes expectant and carrying a hint of knowing. The corner of her mouth pulled upwards and Merlin really wanted to smack the expression off her face, even though that idea appalled him at the same time.

Starting at the beginning, as he was ordered, he explained about his father's disappearance, hoping it would distract him from the thoughts that were now swirling around in his mind. It did not, but it was something at least. While he spoke Gwen made understanding faces and sympathetic noises and patted his hand in a way that was overly familiar and welcome-but-not-really. "So, Gwaine sent me over here to...ah...speak to the man in charge," Merlin finished, taking another long sip of his now cooling tea.

"I see." Graceful, skirt-clad legs crossed beneath the table. "The boss will be pleased when he hears this; he appreciates a challenge. They all do, out there." Gwen gestured vaguely towards the offices behind Merlin and his friends. "I'd hate to be doing what they're doing; it was all well and good back in Camelot when choice was taken out of the equation, but I quite like the job I have now. I like the quiet life; I'm not one for adventures and damsels in distress – not that you're a damsel in distress, of course! I just meant –"

"Gwen, calm down."

"Right." She ran her hand through her hair, fingers briefly snagging in her dark curls. "Do you want me to bring you up to his office now or would you rather me bring him down? Although I'm not sure he'd be too pleased with me if I drag him out of his office. He's very particular about being manhandled – which is funny 'cause he thinks he can manhandle everyone he can get his hands on." Gwen's soft laugh filled the staff kitchen, the familiar sound soothing Merlin's rising irritation at the topic being discussed.

Will snorted into his mug of tea and drained the last of it, winking knowingly at Merlin. "I suppose you should take me up to the office," Merlin answered, blatantly ignoring his friend, much to Will's amusement.

"Of course," Gwen replied, nodding as she rose elegantly from her chair. She looked very much the corporate business woman, though it was obvious that was not her profession at all, judging by her earlier words. "Come along, then; you two can stay here, though. Meetings with clients are confidential, I'm afraid!" She breezed past Merlin and only then did he notice the gold nametag pinned to her crimson suit-jacket. _Pendragon colours_, Merlin thought, feeling the rug threatening to be ripped from under his feet. The nametag read: _Guinevere McQueen_.

Something flashed against the skin of her left hand; an engagement ring. He averted his gaze hurriedly, swallowing thickly as he rose to follow after her, leaving his friends behind. Gwen led him past numerous offices, the occupants of which stared at him through the floor-to-ceiling windows as if he were a lost treasure. It unnerved him, but he supposed it was to be expected if they had all known him in a previous life. They came to the last office on that floor, the windows of which were obscured by Venetian blinds.

Heart skipping a beat, Merlin watched as Gwen knocked lightly upon the wooden door before them. "Enter," commanded a voice from within and Merlin's stomach plummeted into his shoes. He knew that voice; he would recognise it anywhere. He was about to turn and walk quickly away when Gwen opened the door, stepping inside the office and pulling Merlin with her, as if she had known what he was planning to do. The office was almost pleasant with its rich carpet and potted plants that had pretty flowers in bloom.

The wall facing the door was covered in framed diplomas and photographs. His stomach did a weird flip-flop when he spotted the photograph of a ten-year-old Arthur Pendragon getting his face shoved into a birthday cake by a six-year-old Morgana, who grinned wickedly at the camera. He tore his gaze away from it, eyes immediately falling upon the man who stood in one corner, watering can in his hand, sprinkling water onto an orchid with yellow petals – there was something vaguely familiar about it, but Merlin did not put too much thought into it. The man was not looking at them, not yet; he was too focused on the plant before him, eyebrows knitted together in a thoughtful frown.

Gwen cleared her throat and Merlin wrenched his gaze towards her, throwing her a dirty look. She responded with a knowing smirk and disappeared out the door, leaving him alone with her boss. The man in question glanced up at the noise, blue eyes taking in the sight of Gwen's retreating back and Merlin standing awkwardly just inside the door. A number of emotions flashed across Arthur's face, too quick for Merlin to catalogue, before the man settled upon indifference.

Slowly, Arthur placed his watering can on the nearby stand and crossed to his desk, sitting imperiously upon the wing-backed chair. That one did not swivel, unlike Gwen's and Merlin had to bite back the unbidden laughter that rose within him. It was just so..._Arthur_. The English Oak desk bore the weight of a desktop computer – most likely the most expensive and best quality around; a few files, perfectly stacked; a large red mug placed just so, the bottom of which was covered in the dregs of cold coffee; a picture of his mother and father on the day of their wedding, tilted so that both Arthur and a client may see it at any moment – Merlin realised with a start that the man in the photo was _Uther Pendragon_, the Rhabdophobic Prime Minister that had been _assassinated _twelve years previously; an odd-looking phone base; and a selection of pens, pencils and other utensils, neatly arranged.

Eyeing the desk surreptitiously, Merlin suspected he had mild OCD. "Were you born in a field? Close the door," said Arthur, tone biting, causing Merlin to jump at the abruptness of it.

"Better to be born in a field than with a silver spoon," Merlin retorted, though he did comply with the order. He was not planning on having anything thrown at him today. His irritation with the man shone through his every movement, however.

"What could you possibly have against silver spoons?" Blue eyes blinked in surprise before narrowing shrewdly. "They look very fetching on dinner tables, though I suppose you'd know nothing about that."

"I have nothing against _spoons_; it's the posh gits holding them I can't stand."

Arthur's jaw tightened fractionally at the slight, but he waved a dismissive hand and focused upon the reason for Merlin's presence in his office. "Take a seat, Mr..."

"Dragan." Another blink; pale eyebrows knitted together, skin wrinkling slightly between them, giving Merlin the distinct impression that he was being scrutinised. Blue eyes tracked Merlin's movements as he settled himself gracelessly into the visitor's chair. The upholstery was soft beneath him, comfortable. He almost wished it was uncomfortable so that the prat would gain no points from him. "Thanks for the offer; it looked like it hurt."

"Immensely," was the curt response. "Now, let's get down to business, shall we? Who referred you to us, since you obviously didn't find us through the appropriate channels? You would have called first, if you had."

"DI Gwaine Lott gave me the address, the git; he said you might be able to help me. I was wondering why he was acting so secretive, now I know and he's going to be a dead man when I get through with him." He palmed his fist threateningly. The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched, as though it were on the verge of smiling, before his face evened out once more. Merlin ignored the way his traitorous stomach squirmed. "So...what exactly do you do, here, anyway?" He flicked his gaze towards the displayed diplomas; politics, law and one from the police academy in London.

"We – my team and I – are Private Investigators." Arthur spoke as though Merlin had been diagnosed with clinical stupidity. "You obviously didn't notice the large sign outside, which clearly stated _Pendragon Investigations _in gold letters." No, he had missed that little detail. _Stupid impressive grey building_, he thought darkly. He glared at Arthur with his stiff clothing and manicured nails. A smug smirk pulled the corner of Arthur's mouth upwards, as if he knew what Merlin was thinking.

"Yeah, well, I've been distracted lately, you prat; that's why I'm here. My Dad's disappeared and the police are hardly doing anything to track him down." Before Arthur could get a word in edgeways Merlin dived into a full explanation of the situation, starting from that night at The Isle. He ran his hand through his hair once he was done. "Of course, I'll never be able to afford your fees, which are probably outrageously steep, so I don't know why I'm even bothering." He rose from his chair and strode to the door without another word.

"Mr Dragan...Merlin," said Arthur quietly, though with a hint of barely-hidden urgency, "don't be hasty. The most important thing right now is finding your father; we can worry about fees after." Merlin froze, hand on the door-handle, realising that despite the indifferent demeanour Arthur had previously displayed, the man _remembered_. The Arthur Merlin had met in The Isle would never have asked him to wait, but the one from Camelot, tempered by the years Merlin had known him, would have.

Slowly, Merlin turned to face the man who had once been Prince and King of Camelot, had once been his closest friend. His hand still gripped the handle, just in case. "You could have said you remembered, Arthur."

"Why would I have done so? You gave me no indication that you did, either; you're as insolent as you ever were, as I'm sure you would be had we never met in the first place." Blue eyes burned across the span of the office. A strong jaw canted upwards, showcasing a hint of inner steel. "Furthermore, and I'm certain you'll agree with me, I don't see why a previous life should have any bearing upon this one. Those days will never come again." Resting his hands briefly against the desk Arthur rose from his chair. "So, I propose...a fresh start."

"I think we already had our start at The Isle," said Merlin, a huff of laughter escaping him as Arthur came around the desk, "and it wasn't exactly fresh; just rewritten."

"That doesn't count."

"What? Of course, it counts. Why wouldn't it count? Being the reincarnated King of Camelot doesn't mean you can dictate what counts as an introduction."

"_Mer_lin." There it was, said in the same manner he used to utter it. Silence fell between them, then, the pair of them standing almost awkwardly in the confines of Arthur's spacious office, a mere few feet separating them. A soft sigh escaped the blond man. Merlin's heart pounded painfully against his ribs and he briefly wondered if Arthur could hear it. Surely, he must do; it seemed frightfully loud. Slowly, Arthur crossed the distance and held his hand out in offering. A small smile graced his mouth, lighting up the whole room.

Eyes flicking between the hand and Arthur's face, Merlin hesitated briefly before reluctantly taking the offering, gripping Arthur's forearm, just below the elbow as they had done in the past. A wave of memories crashed over him instantly.

_Arthur and Merlin rode their horses, returning to Camelot at a nice easy pace. "That was a good quest!" Merlin said happily. "Did you meet that man on the bridge? And the Wyverns; they were really scary. Oh, and when they were going for the throat; that was so close!"_

"_You really talk some nonsense sometimes, Merlin. I mean, what on earth do you even know about this? It's not like you were there."_

"_Course, I was." Merlin looked at Arthur as though he was stupid._

"_You were not there; you have not seen me for days. You went on a little trip to...pick herbs or whatever it is you do in your spare time." _

_The image changed, rushing onto the next disjointed piece of recollection. Merlin wrenched open Arthur's curtains. "Up you get."_

"_What for? Where's breakfast?" Arthur managed to utter before Merlin stuffed some fruitcake into his mouth, effectively muffling any further words._

_After mentioning a litany of duties the Prat had to perform, Merlin proclaimed, "and be a judge!"_

"_Preside over a trial?!"_

"_A Garland Competition!" Arthur flopped back down in bed at that happy pronouncement, but Merlin was soon dragging his protesting and flailing body out of bed, blankets and all, to drop him in a heap on the cold stone floor. He then had the cheek to say, "You're doing very well, Arthur." More and more broken memories flashed across his mind; one of Merlin weak, almost immobile, strapped to the saddle of a horse, Arthur's soft apology like a slap to the face, Merlin whispering, "take me with you, please!"; one of water streaming across his ghostly-pale skin, healing him, protecting him; a hundred – nay, a thousand instances where they exchanged burning glances, cheerful grins, sentimental smiles; one of Merlin standing in the rain, soaked to the skin, watching Arthur vent his frustration with his sword._

_So many images. They were beginning to overwhelm him, when one more flashed in his mind's eye. He and Arthur were crouched down together, leaning against the wall. "We will defeat the Dorocha," said Merlin, "we will, Arthur." They heard one, felt one approaching and as Arthur made to get up Merlin wrenched him backwards, lunging forward himself. The Dorocha collided with him, the magical energy blasting him off his feet._

"Fuckin' ow," exclaimed Merlin in pain, one hand rising gingerly to cup the back of his head where it had impacted with the door of Arthur's office. A shadow fell across him and he looked up to see Arthur crouched down beside him, blue eyes dark with concern. The man reached out to touch him and Merlin flinched away as if scalded. The blond lowered his hand, then, jaw clenching slightly. It took a moment for Merlin to notice the fine tremor racing along Arthur's arm. The man must have relived the same memories – at least, the ones he had been privy to.

"Maybe I really can take you apart with one blow," Arthur mused, arching one pale eyebrow.

"This is more like putting me back together again, like Humpty Dumpty," Merlin groused, pushing himself to his feet as Arthur straightened, backing away. "Besides, I could say the same to you!"

A disbelieving laugh bubbled up from Arthur's chest. "I'm not the one who was knocked on my arse, Merlin."

An incriminating flush attacked Merlin's cheeks and he decidedly did _not_ think about Arthur's arse – a sight he had seen on many an occasion in the past – following that statement. Instead, he let out an indignant huff. "Yeah, but that wasn't you; that was the Dorocha, you moron."

"Says the man who jumped in front of one. Really, Merlin, you haven't got a self-preservation bone in your body!"

"No, but I've got two hundred and six worth-it bones."

"You are _so _full of shit." But Arthur was grinning, the skin around his eyes crinkling merrily, just like it used to in their previous lives. Merlin averted his gaze and stood awkwardly in front of him. Silence fell once more between them, until a faint ringing sound reached Merlin's ears. He glanced around and witnessed Arthur raising a hand, fingers pressing lightly against an earpiece he had not noticed before. "No, no, it's alright; send her up. Mr Dragan was just leaving. Reschedule tomorrow's two o'clock appointment for sometime in the next week and inform the client. Pencil Mr Dragan in for that time frame. Thanks, Gwen." Another press of his fingers and the call ended. "I'll see you tomorrow, Merlin; bring the copy you made of the recording, please. We may need to have someone look at it, for tampering."

Merlin inclined his head in understanding and high-tailed it out of there, without another word, before his traitorous body – and mind – could react to Arthur's presence any further. "We're leaving," he said abruptly when he found his friends in the kitchen, having demolished all the biscuits on the plate. Freya jumped up from her chair and Will was more sedate, but they both followed after him when he whirled around and loped towards the stairs. His steps were hurried and it was a miracle he did not fall on his face during his descent, but he managed to survive the staircase.

When Freya questioned him about what had happened in the office Merlin shook his head, lips thinning. He was not ready to discuss it, not right now. "That bad, eh?" Will half-joked, slapping him on the shoulder, giving him a knowing wink and a smile. He must have taken Merlin's continued silence as an affirmative, for he let the matter drop immediately. Merlin was quiet during the ride back to his house, staring pensively out the window at the passing buildings. He could hardly get Arthur – past and present – out of his head and that was _so_ not conducive to having a fresh start with the man.

Briefly, he wondered if Arthur was having as much trouble. _Probably not_, he thought, unable to explain why that thought saddened him. It was not like this New Age Arthur was the same man that Golden Age Arthur had been, though he had to admit that from the fleeting time spent with Gwen she seemed to be almost the exact same person, if a little bit more smirk-y. He frowned at that and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the phantom touch of Golden Age Arthur's sword-calloused hand. The sensation of the echo caused the little hairs to stand on end and goose bumps to rise on his flesh.

Hands firm around the steering wheel, Freya glanced sideways at him, her forehead creased with gentle worry. "You alright, Merlin? You're unnaturally quiet."

"He's fine," Will interjected, jokingly, before Merlin had the chance to respond. "Well, not fine, exactly; he's a bit scrambled in the head, you see, but that's nothing new." Will patted his shoulder consolingly, mouth contorted half-sympathetically. "It's all right, Merlin; you'll be better before you get married!"

A huff of laughter, which sounded half-hysteric and half-disbelieving, escaped Merlin and he batted his friend's hand away. "It seems you're more observant than I ever gave you credit for." He was only half-joking, but Will's answering – and very cheeky – grin was almost blinding. "You've got some explaining to do, mate."

"I figured."

"Me too," said Freya and Merlin whipped his head around so fast he risked whiplash. He stared at her like she had grown an extra head. Freya flashed him an apologetic smile as she pulled into his driveway, shifting gears and pulling up the handbrake. She cut the engine. "You don't remember me, yet, but you will. I've been waiting three years; I think I can wait a little longer." Getting out of the car, Freya and Will shared commiserating looks. It hit him, then; all those secretive looks his friends had shared over the years had been because of him, because he had no memory of them in their previous lives.

It seemed everyone he knew, everyone he loved, had lived before, had lived a strange existence in a land remembered only in silly myths. It surprised him and yet, simultaneously, it did not. How could he truly be surprised when, with a flash of gold eyes, he could levitate all the furniture in his house? Could set fire to a forest? Could bring a Sky Scraper crumbling to the ground? The actions were the stuff of legends and fairytales themselves. All those meetings he had thought were by chance seemed to have been fuelled by something else completely.

_That is the price of destiny, young Warlock_, rumbled a voice, the same voice that had said his name the night his dreams had first started. Merlin stumbled on his way to the front door, a hand rising to his head as the voice reverberated loudly around his skull, familiar and wonderful and terrible and dreaded and wanted. Kilgharrah; the name came to Merlin unbidden – he had known it all along, but had never realised. _Your life will always flow in patterns, Merlin, no matter how you wish otherwise_.

"Oh, my God; shut up, Dumbledore." Merlin shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so. "I don't have time for your messages about destiny."

_Pleasant as ever, I see. This won't be our last, Young Warlock. _The voice of the Great Dragon laughed but finally faded into silence, leaving Merlin in peace. With a sigh he opened his eyes and stepped up to the front door, pointedly ignoring the fact that Will and Freya were levelling concerned glances at him, eyes slightly wide. Forgoing the use of his keys because he was too lazy to search his pockets for them, Merlin pressed a hand against the doorknob and allowed his eyes to flash gold before pushing the door open, gesturing for his friends to precede him across the threshold.

Now a safe distance away from Arthur, he allowed himself to relax, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension there. He lost himself in housework – an oddity for him; the only thing he was good at was polishing and the reason for that had begun dawning on him since those first few psychic echoes had begun – while his friends kept him company, staying silent for the moment, giving him some time to gather his thoughts. But housework reminded him of his days as Arthur's manservant and, while it was not entirely horrible to remember, it was a problem.

How could he focus on being friends in this life when he could not stop thinking about their relationship in the previous one? Arthur was right; those days would never come again, but it did not seem to stop his mind from lingering upon them. Shaking his head, Merlin forced himself to focus on his mother's china in front of him – a wedding gift from Gaius and Alice when his parents got married. He polished them gently, carefully; almost afraid that he would break them despite the numerous instances he had polished them without incident in the past.

But Murphy's Law was a constant threat when Merlin was around. Especially when he was around, Will would say whenever he mentioned it, only half-jokingly. When Merlin had cleaned so much that everything in his body was aching he trudged into the living room and keeled over on the couch, uncaring that his friends were sitting on it at the time. He rested his head on Freya's lap and she buried her fingers in his hair, carding them through soothingly, fingertips grazing his scalp welcomingly.

He was already wishing that he was back in the office building with Arthur...and Gwen, too, for that matter, though on a lesser scale; this did not bode well, at all. "I'm screwed," Merlin admitted at last.

"Like a cow in mating season."

"Oh, God! Ew! Will, you're disgusting!" Freya said, reaching across the couch to slap his arm.

"I try."

Merlin gave him a half-arsed kick and Will slapped his leg in return. "Can we talk about my problems, here, instead of your warped sense of humour?" Neither of his friends answered, so Merlin took that as his cue to start talking. Once the flow had started, it all came rushing out of him and soon he was pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Freya and Will listened in silence, looking at him with understanding gazes. "What the hell am I supposed to do about this? All of my feelings and thoughts are jumbled up inside; I can hardly put any order to it!"

"You let it take its course, Merlin," said Will, mouth tight with seriousness. "You can't stop a river when it's coming."

"Ever hear of a dam?"

"Dams can only hold back so much; that's why, when it rains heavily, they have to release some of it to lessen the pressure. I know how you're feeling; you're confused, your thoughts are pulling you in different directions. You want to run away as fast as your legs can carry you, but you want to drown in it all, too. And the headaches; God, the headaches are the worst. I went through the same thing when you and I first met, that first day of school after you moved here from Cardiff."

"Why'd you never tell me? Either of you?"

"You'd have thought us mad," answered Freya, voice tinged with sorrow. When Merlin opened his mouth to refute her words, she spoke again. "Don't say you wouldn't; we're not fools, Merlin. At best, you wouldn't have wanted to know us at all. You'd have run, as fast as you could, away from us and wouldn't give us the time of day even if we paid you. That would have hurt, more than you could know. You're my best friend, Merlin, and I couldn't bear to have you turn me away."

"You took the bloody words right out of my mouth, Freya," said Will, resting his forearm lightly on Merlin's leg. "We knew this discussion would come someday; with the weight of your destiny on your shoulders, it was a certainty. It's just a matter of where and when. But none of that is important, now. The only thing that matters is that you're running from something you ought never to run from. You need to slow down, Merlin, and listen to what's going on in here." Will pressed his fingertip to his temple repeatedly.

"So you're saying I should let Arthur trample all over my life, now that I've met him again?"

"I'm saying it's going to happen anyway; you might as well enjoy the ride." Merlin blinked and deliberately avoided thinking about Arthur and enjoying rides at the same time; such thoughts were not conducive to a healthy mental state. Will must have known what he was decidedly _not thinking_, for he slapped his leg with a laugh. "Stop that, you pervert!"

"Stop bullying me, you oaf."

Freya snorted, an embarrassingly loud sound in the living room. "You wouldn't know how to be bullied if it came up and bit you on the arse."

"You might be right," Merlin conceded, thinking of the many times Arthur – or someone else – had said something or done something nasty and he had responded with barbed words, some sleight of hand and a smirk or laugh, too proud to back down even when he was outnumbered four to one. He was far too much of a fighter to be a victim and yet he had never been as much of a fighter as Arthur, or even Morgana, had. Not physically, at least. Magically, verbally, mentally, he was as good as any; he knew that.

Better probably, though that sounded surprisingly close to Arthur's egocentric views of his own prowess in the arena, so Merlin knocked himself down a peg or fifteen automatically. He was not like that prat, after all. Not in the slightest. Really, he was the furthest from being like Arthur on the planet. "Tomorrow, you'll have to make your way over to Knightsbridge on your steam," said Freya, distracting him from his thoughts. "I've got to get back to work before they fire my arse."

"Me too, actually; it'll be nice to get back to a solid routine. Will?"

The man in question sighed dramatically. "Yeah, alright; I'll house-sit while you're gone, since you're so insistent." Will rolled his eyes, but they sparkled with latent humour...

To Be Continued.

Feel free to let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Man with the Dragon Tattoo – Chapter Four.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Author's Notes: I hope you guys enjoyed the last chapter! Here's another for you!

Chapter Four: Devil Woman

The hours spent at the _Olde Apothecary_ – over on Gower Street, near Euston Square – under the watchful eye of Alice Oldman were not the most pleasant Merlin had ever spent. Grinding, hacking, breaking, chopping, burning; that was his day in the backroom, while the boss – Gaius' wife, no less – dealt with the customers at the front desk. She would peer in at him every thirty minutes, however, trying to do so discreetly so that he would not be offended. But Merlin knew. Oh, how he knew. Every time her gaze fell on him his skin started crawling.

It had never happened before in the four years he had worked there – part-time while he had been studying botany and herb-lore at university and full-time since he had graduated. It was not necessarily something that Alice was doing that made him feel that way. It just happened, as if one morning he had woken up and found the intensity of her eyes disturbing. She had been there, in the old days, somewhere; he was just unable to place her for the moment, but he knew he would remember soon.

That worried him, considering the other people he had met gave him mostly pleasant sensations while in their presence. Alice, though, seemed to result in a sense of maggots or worms wriggling around on his skin, causing him to shudder intermittently. Sometimes, he thought she knew how he felt, if the sympathetic looks she gave him were any indication. Shaking his head, Merlin focused on the mortar and pestle in his hands, ignoring the presence of Alice's gaze on his back.

Since he had met Arthur at the office yesterday, his memory-echoes had begun rearranging themselves, slotting into some semblance of order, allowing him to make more sense of it all. That was a good thing; his mind was jumbled enough without the addition of memories from a turbulent previous life. It made keeping Arthur out of his thoughts an increasingly difficult feat, especially when golden hair and sky-blue eyes assaulted his filthy mind at the most inopportune moments.

Sighing, Merlin set aside the pestle and began depositing generous pinches of fine dark powder in to seven or so small pots of stewing potions. Each one of them reacted in the same manner; with a fizzle and a surge of coloured fumes that made him cough as his eyes watered. He batted at the air in front of him, turning his face away. It took several long moments for his lungs and tear ducts to calm down, but they did eventually. He was bottling the last portion of the potion he had brewed, just as the alarm on his phone started to go off.

He was so startled he almost dropped the phial. It was only a quick fumbling of hands that saved it from shattering at Merlin's feet. Taking a calm breath, Merlin set the potion down with the others and turned his alarm off before taking his apron off. Hanging it up on the hook by the door, he stepped out from the backroom. The boss was frowning down at a catalogue filled with ingredients she was considering having imported. "Alice, that thing I told you about; I have to go now."

"Okay, dear," Alice replied absentmindedly, waving in the general direction of where he was standing.

Merlin hurried out of the alternative health shop, tossing back a last-minute comment about the latest batch of potions and a half-arsed parting wave. He flagged the first taxi he saw and bundled himself in to it, calling out the address as he did so. It was just his luck that he got stuck in traffic and had to wait, tensely, in the passenger seat. He drummed his fingertips against his knees to pass the time, unaware that he was practically chewing holes in to his bottom lip he was so stressed.

By the time he arrived outside _Pendragon Investigations_ he was five minutes late. He burst in through the revolving doors, only slightly out of breath, to find Lance Knightley manning the receptionist area. The man in question looked up from his keyboard, a lock of dark hair tumbling down over his forehead. "You're late," said Lance, stating the obvious, though a small smile graced his mouth.

"A Wizard is never late," replied Merlin, quoting one of his favourite sorcerers, waving dismissively, though he could not refrain from grinning, "nor is he early; he arrives precisely when he means to."

Lance's smile broadened into a grin. "Excellent! High-five for fandom references!" The man rose from his swivel-chair and held his hand in the air. Merlin had no compunctions about giving him a high-five; it was an awesome feeling, after all, when people recognised references. The action quickly became a hug, however, but he did not mind much. Lance's presence made him inexplicably happy. "Gods, it's good to see you, Merlin! I can hardly believe it's been over a thousand years since Camelot!"

"Right back at you," said Merlin, pulling back after a long moment. He looked around. "Where's Gwen?"

"Oh, she went up to Caerleon in Wales to fix a Wedding Catastrophe; there was a hiccup at the florists. That's pretty bad, because the wedding is next weekend." Merlin remembered seeing the flash of an engagement ring against her lovely hand and told himself it was not bitterness coursing through his veins at the thought of Gwen getting married – everyone knew, after all, who Guinevere married in Arthurian Legend. He fought back the surge of memories that tried to push their way to the surface. Memories of Gwen being crowned Queen Regnant of Camelot.

"That soon?" He convinced himself his voice did not carry even the slightest tremor.

"Well, she's been waiting about four years to get married, so..." Lance smiled, then, looking truly happy for her. It just made Merlin feel like he was a bad person. If Lance, a man who had loved Gwen since forever, could stand back and watch her say vows to someone else, Merlin should be able to grin and bear the fact that Arthur was far from being a gay man. Again.

"I suppose I should head up to Arthur's office," said Merlin, shuffling on his feet as he made an awkward subject change.

"Yeah and don't worry about his reaction to your tardiness, either," answered Lance, clapping his hand briefly on Merlin's shoulder. "Arthur's late himself, actually. Lunch at Buckingham Palace must have been very engaging to keep him this long when he knows he has clients to deal with."

"He – what?"

Lance grinned, brown eyes sparkling with burning amusement. "Didn't you know? Queen Elizabeth's always been fond of Arthur Pendragon and has been inviting him over for lunch every Saturday – when she's at Buckingham, of course – for the past twelve years, ever since Uther was assassinated on live television." The grin and amusement faded, then, understandably. Merlin felt a pang of sadness and sympathy at the thought of such a thing being recorded. It was like JFK all over again, though Uther was more of a tyrant than anything.

"What do they even talk about?"

"Politics, work, Doctor Who and Arthur's love life, I'd imagine."

"What is it with old Grannies and peoples' love lives?"

Lance laughed, a loud and warm sound that made Merlin feel warm and fuzzy inside. "I have no idea, mate. Now, get up to the office before Arthur gets back or he'll have both our heads." He complied, heading up the staircase, though he did throw a curious gaze towards the second flight of stairs that continued up past the office floor. He wondered what could possibly be up there. Empty offices? Storage space? Endless files of cases that were done and dusted? Living quarters?

Shaking his head at that last thought, Merlin moved away from the stairs, striding past the same offices and some of the investigators he had the day before. It was obvious that some had gone out to work a case or get lunch or something of that nature. He tried the door to Arthur's office, found it unlocked and wondered if the prat really did enjoy courting disaster. Merlin tisk-ed at the lack of extra security, but slipped inside without a word. He settled himself down in the visitor's chair and admired the framed photographs on the wall.

There was one of a twelve-year-old Arthur standing on a football pitch, decked out in his squad's colours, one spiked-boot-clad foot sitting on a football. His father, the Prime Minister of the time, stood slightly behind him, proud hand resting on Arthur's shoulder. Uther's face was serious, as usual, but Arthur's...Arthur's grin looked as though it could put the sun out of business at the drop of a hat. Merlin's stomach wobbled at the sight of it and he struggled to remember a time where Arthur had smiled like that, in Uther's presence, back in Camelot.

Another showed sixteen-year-old Arthur in a tuxedo. There was a very beautiful girl on his arm, all blonde hair and slender limbs, wearing a dress made of silk. The name Elena popped into Merlin's head as he looked at the photo of her. Uther was in the background, as serious as ever, clad in his own tuxedo. The photograph had obviously been taken on the eve of some Charity function or Government-related event. But Arthur did not look the least bit happy to have Elena on his arm. It was obvious that they were as far from being a romantically-involved couple as possible.

_Good_, Merlin thought darkly. He inspected the other photographs with equal intensity, his frown deepening as he realised there was not a single photograph of Arthur and Gwen together, alone, as a couple. _What the hell, Arthur. That's messed up; you're supposed to be proud of your relationship with your soon-to-be wife_. He told himself he was not pleased by this development. He had no more time to think on it, however, for the office door opened inward with a surge of energy.

Looking over his shoulder, Merlin watched Arthur stride into the office, shrugging a suit-jacket over his graceful and masculine shoulders. A brown briefcase was clutched in his right hand. "I'm sorry for the delay," he offered, marching past Merlin without even looking at him. "I was...waylaid."

"Aw, come on. That's a terrible euphemism for lunch with the Queen; I can't imagine little old Elizabeth ambushing a strapping young man like yourself."

Arthur snorted and shook his head. "Not by her, idiot... Lance told you, didn't he? That turncoat!" He set his briefcase down on his desk and popped it open, rifling through some files before he plucked out a slender white card, which was folded in two. "Gwen wanted me to pass this on to you, since she knew I'd be seeing you, today. I'd advise you to give her a response as soon as possible; you'll find her mobile number on the inside." Arthur held it out, eyeing him expectantly.

Merlin frowned, but did reach out and accept it. "What is it?"

"An invite to her wedding, obviously. Honestly, Merlin, you're not all there, are you?" Arthur snapped his briefcase shut and bent down, sliding it under his desk. Merlin decidedly did not ogle the way Arthur's dark trousers tightened around his hips, upper thighs and arse during the action. The former King of Camelot settled in to his seat as if it were a throne and gazed at Merlin across the desk, eyeing him even as he eyed the invitation in his hand. After a hesitant moment Merlin reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone.

In silence he opened the invite, looking only at the number written there in delicate handwriting that was immediately familiar and copied the number onto his phone, saving it in his contacts. He slipped the device back into his pocket, along with the mostly unread invitation. When he looked up Arthur's eyes had narrowed fractionally – enough for someone who knew him to know he was irritated. "What?"

The man's expression evened out. "Nothing. Did you bring the recording?"

"Yeah." Merlin retrieved the SD card immediately from his wallet and placed it upon the desk. Without a word Arthur booted up his computer and slipped the card in to place, uploading the digital file onto his hard drive. For a moment he squinted determinedly at the screen before him and then he sighed in defeat, before pulling upon one of the drawers at his side. Merlin watched in amazement as the man opened a case, unfolded a pair of designer glasses and slipped them on. Though the glasses looked ridiculously attractive on Arthur, he simply could not refrain from commenting, "Wow. How blind are you in this life?"

"Shut up, Merlin," said Arthur, his tone menacing. He glanced at Merlin above the silver rims. Blue eyes, intense with some dark emotion, focused on Merlin's face. "This fact doesn't leave this office, _ever_. Do you understand?"

Merlin sputtered indignantly at the thinly veiled threat but dissolved in to laughter a moment later. "Oh, my God; is that why you keep the blinds closed? You vain bugger! There isn't anything wrong with wearing glasses, you know; Gaius wears glasses; _Gary Oldman_ wears glasses – and I must say the ones you picked out are quite good. They suit you."

Faint colour flared high on Arthur's cheeks, though Merlin knew the man would deny the possibility of blushing if he commented on it. Wisely, he stayed silent on the matter. "They're a handicap," said Arthur, sniffing with distaste. He supposed it was understandable for a man like Arthur, who had been Camelot's pride and joy in the arena and on the battlefield, to be a bit putout at having to rely on glasses sometimes. The man tore his gaze away from Merlin and focused upon the screen in front of him, decidedly ignoring the presence of his newly acquired client.

He watched Arthur watch the recording and knew that doing so was probably intensely creepy, but he could hardly help himself. It was just so odd and stupidly wonderful to see Arthur wearing something as commonplace as a pair of glasses. Why did the man have to be so perfect, even with a slight disability like longsighted-ness? "You know, Harry Potter wore glasses and it didn't stop him from kicking Voldemort's arse."

"Voldemort clearly had more respect for the disabled than I originally gave him credit for. A real villain would have summoned Harry's glasses and crushed them into dust, leaving him blind; Harry'd be a sitting duck. That's what I'd have done." He snapped his fingers to emphasise the point.

"I didn't realise you were a real villain, Arthur."

The man waved a dismissive hand. "A mere technicality." A small smile graced Arthur's mouth and Merlin felt a surge of triumph. His answering grin was blinding, though he was not certain Arthur could even see it, so focused upon the screen was he. Silence fell between them, stretching on as Arthur viewed the recording, eyes narrowing on minute details every so often. Eventually, he turned away from his computer and, sighing, he pulled his glasses away from his face with one hand. Something in his expression filled Merlin with a sense of foreboding. "I'm almost one hundred percent certain that this recording has been tampered with; there are a number of things on there that don't make a lick of sense."

Merlin inclined his head in agreement. "I thought so; the Police weren't so sure, of course, like I told you yesterday."

But Arthur was no longer listening. Instead he was pressing his fingertips to the piece he had just slipped in to his ear. "Get Doctor Black on the phone and patch me through immediately. I'm quite sure, Lance!" Several long moments passed before the person in question was on the other end of the line. "Yes, I know; trust me, I would much rather avoid all contact with you, too, but I wouldn't call if I didn't think it absolutely necessary... I have an ongoing case, here, that requires a specialist of your standard. How soon can you be here? Y-you're already here?!" It was unusual for the man to stammer like that. "Hello?! Well, shite."

Arthur ripped the earpiece from his ear and dropped it on the table angrily even as the clack of stilettos against tiles sounded outside the door, growing louder with every passing moment. "Just so you know, I was hoping to prepare you for this. Too late, now, though." The man growled in frustration and rose from his chair, running his hand back through his blond hair agitatedly. He looked like a caged panther, prowling around its miniscule territory, hackles raised in apprehension. The claws would be coming out soon enough.

Mouth open to ask Arthur what he meant, Merlin froze when the office door opened behind him. He jumped up out of the chair and turned to face the door, knowing that whoever walked through would be the cause of Arthur's agitation. He intended to be a well-mannered client who needed assistance, but the face that met his gaze sent that idea swirling down the toilet. With startling blue eyes, pale skin, dark hair and lips unnaturally red, the woman in front of him was like an electric shock, shooting through his body and mind violently.

The young sorcerer saw red in an instant, anger and hatred overwhelming him like a tidal wave. He lunged for the woman without a moment's thought, gasping in pain and surprise when Arthur wrenched his arm backwards, twisting it painfully before he slammed Merlin facedown onto the desk, sending a pile of files to the floor. "Merlin," Arthur ground out through a clenched jaw, "we do _not_ attack Government officials!"

Merlin sputtered indignantly. "Excuse me?!"

"This is Doctor Nim Black, you idiot. Black, how the hell did you get here so fast?"

"But –"

Nim's lovely mouth stretched in to an evil smirk as she tilted her head slightly to the side. "Relax, wonder boy; I'm not going to hurt your boyfriend. I learned my lesson. As for how I got here...it's classified."

"I'm not his boyfriend," said Arthur, but he was ignored in the main as Merlin had simultaneously blurted, "She's a sorceress!"

"I think Mr Pendragon is aware of that, given my position in Her Majesty's Government."

"Sorcery is ridiculously illegal in this Kingdom; how the hell did you manage that?" Merlin demanded, glowering at Nim from where he was pinned to the table, awkward though it was.

"Even Ian Killer realises you need to fight fire with fire sometimes," said Nim, the lenses on her silver-framed glasses glinting like sharpened blades. "I'm the only sorceress in the Kingdom with permission to practice magic; my pardon was signed by the Queen and the Prime Minister. On top of that I have a doctorate in Information Technology. Do you want my help on this or not? I can walk right back out that door and you'll never see my face again, but your case probably won't be solved if that happens. I'm the only one that can legally help you. Use anyone else and Pendragon, here, will be up on criminal charges. It's your choice, wonder boy."

Silence fell in the office as Merlin thought about her words, scowling at her as he did so. Arthur did not let him up, but that was undoubtedly a good thing for the moment. Eventually Merlin spoke up, voice soft but deadly serious, "You tried to kill Arthur, tried to kill me, almost killed my mother, killed Gaius and placed a plague upon a city of innocent people; why should I trust you? Why should I believe that you won't screw me over in the end? As payback for destroying you?"

The smile fell from Nim's face as she stared at Merlin and Arthur both. Her expression turned glacial in an instant. "I'm not that person anymore. This is a new age, a new life; my rough edges have been smoothed out by the times we live in, just like you. But I know none of that will mean anything to you, so I'll tell you what; as an act of good faith, I'll aid the investigation pro bono."

"I don't like you."

"Like I've never heard that one before."

"I don't trust you."

"Now we're getting somewhere."

"But I suppose you'll do, for now. However, if I think that you've turned on me for even the slightest moment your arse is mine."

"Do you always let your boyfriend speak to Government officials like that?" Nim asked, blue eyes homing in on Arthur as the man finally – _finally _– let Merlin up. She tisked. "That'll get you in trouble, one day."

"He's not my boyfriend," answered Arthur, scowling severely. Nim said nothing and merely smirked in response. Merlin ignored the pair of them as he rubbed the kinks out of his back and the aches from his arm. Arthur had always been a rather violent and vigorous sort, often grappling with Merlin when the sorcerer did something stupid, but that was the first time it had happened in this life time. It had sent a thrill through him, being pinned to the desk like that, but at the same time it had irritated him. Arthur should know that manhandling was not appreciated. "Take a look at the recording; see what you can make of it."

Nim smiled and strode past Merlin and Arthur, seating herself in Arthur's chair. She wore wrinkle-free black trousers, a white blouse and a black suit jacket. With a start he realised that, in this life, Nim was younger than Arthur by at least three years. He knew, then, that she must have been one hell of an IT expert if she worked for the Government at such a young age. It made him feel inadequate with his virtually useless degree in botany. He bristled at the feeling of inadequacy, but tried to shrug it off.

Merlin eyed her suspiciously for a long moment, before turning away, still rubbing his wrist. In silence, he paced back and forth across the office, though he could feel Arthur's eyes burning holes in to his shoulders. The man had always had a problem with Merlin's inability to sit still for long; it just made him pace all the more, however. The silence that pervaded the office was broken only by the frequent noises Nim made, sounding extremely interested and surprised. "The sorcerer that tampered with this footage is either terribly sloppy...or a complete genius," she said after some time. "It'll take me a while to sort through it and know for certain."

"How long?" Arthur asked, clearly irritated by this news.

"Anywhere between three and seven days."

"That's a ridiculous length of time," said Merlin, whirling around to face the pair of them. Nim was in the process of making a copy of the recording, saving it onto a memory stick that she had whipped out of thin air, since her outfit consisted of absolutely no pockets whatsoever. Arthur had his head tipped back, his eyes closed and one hand on his hip. His mouth moved silently as if he were counting himself down from a fit of anger. "Why can't you work faster?"

Nim raised her eyes as she withdrew the memory stick from the USB port. The frames of her glasses gleamed like blades once more, indescribably threatening; she probably knew it, too. "Tampering with digital recordings is a tricky process when using magic, Merlin. You have to do it in stages, adding layer upon layer. The more inexperienced tampering could be fixed in, say, a day, but to be sure this isn't some ruse will need to take longer. Whoever tampered with this was either rubbish or so intent on hiding the truth that they'd have masked it underneath several falsities. You're upset, I get that, but I need to do my job to be the best of my ability and to do that I need the requisite time."

Without another word Nim began pulling the hem of her blouse free of her trousers; the two men in the room could do little more than stare at the swath of pale skin revealed. Her stomach was toned, but not too much – just enough to be appealing. Merlin might be gay, but even he could appreciate female beauty. A stream of incantations tumbled from Nim's mouth and her eyes flashed rusty orange. The memory stick fused with her skin, appearing to be nothing more than a stupidly chosen tattoo. "To keep it safe," she explained, tucking her blouse back into her trousers, "just in case there's more involved here than meets the eye."

"Like what?"

"Like the CCS." Merlin blinked in surprise at that. Did she really believe the _Cenred Crime Syndicate_ could be involved in his father's disappearance? It was ridiculous; his father was a law-abiding man who was unable to use the latent magic within him. What could the CCS possibly want with him that they would go to such lengths to get him? It was like saying FAM – _Front Against Magic_ – wanted to wipe out the little old lady next door because she had a black cat. Utterly bewildered, he watched Nim as she rose elegantly from Arthur's chair and slipped around the desk, crossing the office and disappearing out the door, pulling it closed behind her.

Though they heard no stiletto heels clacking against the tiles, they knew she was gone, vanished without a trace. Silence reigned for all of three seconds. "Well," said Merlin, "that went well."

The look Arthur gave him in response was priceless. "At least you behaved yourself."

"Mostly."

"Mostly," agreed Arthur, inclining his head though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Admit it; you were afraid I'd kill that devil woman for a minute there."

The former King of Camelot snorted and leaned over his computer, moving the mouse with one large hand. "More like I was afraid you'd kill yourself in the attempt."

"Your concern is appreciated," laughed Merlin, an infectious grin spreading across his face.

"Concern? What _is_ this emotion you speak of?" He shook his head as though Merlin was speaking nonsense, ejecting the SD card as he did so. "I just didn't want to be swamped by unnecessary paperwork." He held the card out for him to take.

"Of course, sire," said Merlin, accepting it almost graciously. Their fingers grazed each other in the process, sending a spark through Merlin's torso and straight down to his groin. Arthur's eyes burned in to him and he realised, with a start, what he had just said, how he had addressed the man before him. He wrenched his hand back, an incriminating blush staining his high cheekbones. "Well, I...thanks, I guess. I'll be on my way. Let me know when you hear something from Doctor Black, yeah?"

"Certainly." The man withdrew his fancy and expensive-looking mobile phone from his pocket and looked at Merlin expectantly. Feeling obligated now, Merlin rattled off his mobile number and Arthur saved the number into his contacts. It seemed that was all Arthur would say on the matter, so Merlin turned and made his way towards the door, but then Arthur spoke up again. "The men and I are going out for a few drinks tonight, after work. You can join us, if you like..."

The young sorcerer paused, glancing back over his shoulder at him. "I can't; my friend has been house-sitting while I was at work...while I was here. I need to take over so he can go home and do whatever the hell he does when I'm not around. Some other time, maybe." He knew his words were empty, but he could hardly promise something he would never pull through on. Merlin reached for the door and paused a second time, shoulders slightly tensed. "You should consider getting some contacts lenses, Arthur; that way you won't have any vision problems outside the office and people will be none the wiser."

He did not wait for a response, disappearing out the door without another word. He hurried past the other offices, ignoring the way some of the investigators glanced up from their computers or files in order to track his movements. He loped down the stairs, spared a brief goodbye for Lance at the reception desk and escaped the building as fast as he could, aware that Lance was staring after him, puzzled. His heart was pounding against his ribs and his lungs struggled to catch a breath suddenly.

Being in contact with Arthur certainly had its downsides – like Merlin's complete inability to function like a normal human being. It was quickly becoming dangerous for his health to be locked up in an office, alone, with the man. Traipsing after him in Camelot, dressing him in the morning and undressing him in the evening had been bad enough, but this...this forced closeness without the perks of being a manservant was a hundred times worse. He wanted nothing more than to go back to their previous lives, to be the man he once was.

This was bad – really, really bad – and there was nothing for it except to avoid Arthur's company wherever possible. Obviously, he would have to spend time with him at times while he was working on the case, but other than that Merlin had to stay away from him. He could imagine how difficult that would be now that Arthur had his number. Merlin shook his head, half in despair, as he walked away from _Pendragon Investigations_. Arthur had always been an insistent man, calling for Merlin at ungodly hours – even on his days off; days off given to Merlin by the man himself.

Merlin's sanity was absolutely and irrevocably doomed. Arthur always got what he wanted in the end, no matter what other people had to say about it...

To Be Continued.

Reviews are like cookies; I'd really like to feast on some. So, feel free to let me know what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Man with the Dragon Tattoo – Chapter Five.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Author's Notes: If you haven't season the Season 5 finale, be warned that this chapter contains spoilers.

Chapter Five: Broken Open

"Alright, alright, hold your horses," said Merlin, calling out to whoever was repeatedly knocking on his front door – clearly impatient, judging by the sound of it. He had been in his room, getting dressed after a shower, but now he was hurrying down the stairs. Irritated scowl in place, he yanked open the door. He reeled back at the sight that met him; Arthur, dressed for clubbing, a swath of golden skin visible where a number of his shirt buttons were undone. Behind him stood men he recognised – Leon, Lance, Gwaine and Percy. "What the hell are you lot doing here?"

"Nice, mate; way to make a man feel loved," joked Gwaine, winking at him from behind Arthur even as he clutched at his chest in pain. He flipped Gwaine the bird, but the man just grinned. "I'm sure Princess, here, said something about this to you earlier; we're going out for a drink and you're coming with." Merlin gave Arthur a dark look, but the corner of the prat's mouth quirked upwards in a smirk. The other men smiled; Lance shook his head slowly. Gwaine continued, "We get that you feel you need to stay at home, wait for your Dad, but be realistic here."

Merlin scowled, not liking where this was going at all. "If what Arthur said about your...meeting, for lack of a better euphemism, is correct then the chances of Daddy Dragan walking in the front door tonight are negative fifty, at least. There's no point in you staying at home all the time, twiddling your thumbs."

"Fuck off." Merlin made to slam the door in their faces, but Arthur shoved his booted-foot against the jamb, stopping the door in its tracks, just as Lance smacked Gwaine across the back of his head, catching the man by surprise and knocking him in to Percy's enormous shoulder. "The information made known in that stupid office is supposed to be confidential, Arthur; I could sue you for this."

"But you won't."

"I won't?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you secretly love me, that's why." Merlin sputtered indignantly at Arthur's words, which only grew louder when the man hauled him out of the house, limbs flailing. Gwaine barked out a laugh and claimed there was nothing secret about it, causing his heart to stop beating in his chest for a terrifying moment before it kicked into high-gear, hands grabbing hold of the doorjamb, nails digging in, as Arthur attempted to carry him away. "Come now, Merlin; stop these theatrics! They don't suit you."

"This is kidnapping!"

"Don't be ridiculous! This is an intervention," the man explained as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He managed to pull Merlin away from the jamb, tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes – a kicking and punching sack of potatoes. "You're headed straight for a smacked bottom if you don't settle down!" The men burst into catcalls and laughter but Merlin was silenced completely. He could hardly believe Arthur had just said that and, judging by the tension in Arthur's shoulders, neither could he. Arthur was agitated and mortified; a lethal combination.

"I'm not dressed for going out," Merlin complained, knowing very well that resistance was futile. Arthur always got his way.

"Doesn't matter; if they don't let you in, we can buy your way in."

"I don't have my wallet."

"I'll take care of it."

"But –"

"_Merlin_!" The young sorcerer could not help himself; he started laughing, soft and stuttering chuckles morphing into a fully-formed laugh in a matter of seconds. The irritation in Arthur's tone amused him to no end. It felt wonderful to laugh, to feel the good emotions that being around Arthur caused, even if he knew it was dangerous in the long run. He groaned in pain when the man dumped him in the open back of a red pick-up truck, his slender body bouncing off one of the benches – bolted securely down – and down onto cold steel. Arthur climbed in after him, settling himself down comfortably.

He smirked down at Merlin, who rubbed gingerly at his sore rear. Merlin got to his feet with as much dignity as he could manage, running his hand through his shower-damp hair, tendrils of which clung to the back of his neck in a very irritating manner that made him want to tear at the skin there. He sat down on the bench opposite Arthur's, resting one ankle on the opposite knee as he leaned back, arms resting against the edges of the attached trailer. Leon and Lance climbed in soon after, the former sitting beside Arthur while Lance settled himself down next to Merlin.

Merlin allowed his eyes to drift closed momentarily, lids hiding the flash of gold as he used magic to lock his door. When he opened his eyes it was to see Arthur flicking his gaze off to the side, as if he had been staring at him not a moment beforehand. Biting his bottom lip, he came to the conclusion that he must have imagined it and quickly pushed the thought out of his mind. Percy and Gwaine hopped in to the main compartment of the pick-up, the latter in the passenger seat.

With a loud rumble the machine was brought to life, pulling away from the pavement smoothly. While Percy drove the six of them across London, Leon asked what Merlin was doing with himself these days. "I work in an apothecary," he answered, a wry smile gracing his lips. When Leon raised his ginger brows in surprise, Merlin could not help but continue in order to defend himself and his profession. "I know it's not exactly a glamorous position like you guys have at _Pendragon Investigations _and the police force, but I like it well enough. Although, I _still_ can't see the merits of boiling tiger piss. How long have you lot been Bobbies and investigators?"

"Six years," chorused Gwaine, Percy and Arthur, the last wearing a nostalgic smile. The three of them must have been at the Police Academy at roughly the same time. That made sense; all of them looked as though they had hit their thirties or would do so in the next year or so.

"Four years, six months," answered Lance.

"Since the year 1820," admitted Leon, cheeks flushing. "I was investigating long before Eugène François Vidocq set up Le Bureau des Renseignements Universels pour le Commerce et l'Industrie – or The Office of Universal Information for Commerce and Industry, in English." When uttering those French words the man spoke with a perfect French accent; it was quite impressive. But still...it was Merlin's turn to raise his brows in surprise. "The Cup of Life rendered me immortal," he explained hurriedly, "and, let me tell you, waiting over a thousand years for you guys to be reincarnated sucked monkey balls."

The men chortled, but Merlin considered the man's words carefully. It was no wonder that Leon's grin had been so maniacal when Merlin first strode in to _Pendragon Investigations'_ office building. To wait that long for the return of one's friends must be...horrible, devastating beyond words. He would have lost hope years ago, had it been him in Leon's place. He could almost imagine his reaction when he came across the first one of them; it must have been an explosion of emotions that could hardly be contained in one body, one mind. "You're making us all look bad in comparison," joked Arthur, swatting Leon's arm, though he flashed a grin at him to ensure Leon knew he meant nothing by it.

The journey continued this way, the six of them tossing questions at each other. Merlin learned, for example; Arthur had been educated at Eton as a boy, had studied at Cambridge as a young man and thought his half-sister was a complete harpy; Percy had a severe allergy to nuts, played rugby and kept getting asked, by his Gran, when he was going to hurry up and get married, make her some great grandbabies; Gwaine's father had been a violent drunk, thus inspiring his desire to join the police force; Leon had had around a dozen wives during his lifetime and one homoerotic encounter, though that was a piece of information Merlin wished he had never heard; Lance had originally intended to be a Doctor, but had puked violently at the first sight of the intestines of a dead man – surprising, considering his previous existence as a Knight.

In return, they learned of his mother's death and their subsequent move down from Wales – this earned the placing of a consoling hand, on his knee, from Arthur; an action which made it a struggle not to blush like a bloody schoolgirl – and that his father was a master carpenter, who dabbled in furniture but specialised in life-size and miniature figurines, though he never painted his work. They always seemed unfinished, as though they were waiting for something that may never come.

The thought that they would never be finished made Merlin's eyes sting. He blinked the sensation away, looking off to the side in an attempt to regain his crumbling composure. The last time he had cried – in this life time, at least – had been after his mother died, when he was eight and stupidly believed her death had been because of him. He still felt the guilt, but the increase in rational thought throughout the years had dampened it somewhat, though it never fully eased. It probably never would; the human mind was a mysterious thing.

When they reached their destination – The Isle, as it turned out – they dismounted the vehicle and made their way to the bouncer. There was a queue, but that did not seem to matter to Arthur, who merely approached the man, surrounded by his friends, and received that tight little nod, the man stepping aside to let them past, though he did throw a curious glance at Merlin. But there were no IDs asked for and Merlin counted this as a victory, because people usually thought he was underage. "How did you manage that?" Merlin asked once they were far enough away from the bouncer, heading towards the main part of the club.

"Morgana is one of the joint-owners of the club," Arthur explained, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "This is one of the perks of being the harpy's older brother, I suppose."

"Who's the other owner?"

"Her husband – a man named Aglain Appleby." Merlin tripped over his own feet at that happy pronouncement. Only Arthur's hand, firm and strong around his upper arm, kept him from falling on his face. He could hardly believe it. Morgana was married? There was someone capable of handling her? And they were human? It defied human understanding. The man seemed to know what he had been thinking, for a huff of laughter escaped him. "I know; it's hard to imagine any man marrying that harpy, but they make an oddly happy couple. It's sickening."

"I suppose you gave him the 'hurt my sister and I'll rip off your bollocks' speech."

"Morgana gave it herself, actually – but I stood behind her, showed off some muscle and looked frightening."

Merlin snorted disbelievingly. "Morgana's more frightening than you are!" Behind them Gwaine muttered something dark about said harpy, but if Arthur heard it he chose to ignore it. The others stayed wisely silent on the matter. Leon looked particularly tight-lipped, however, as if cruel and caustic words were quite ready to leap off his tongue. Something niggled at the back of his mind and he knew he should know why the others were not too enamoured of Morgana, but for the life of him he could not recall it.

It sent a jolt of unease down his spine, which made controlling his agitated magic that bit more difficult. He forcibly squashed the urge to release his magic in an energy blast that could wipe out the district, never mind the club itself, shoulders hunching slightly with the effort. Arthur led the way through the club – _typical,_ thought Merlin – and the dancers parted for them as if by magic, but really it was only the man's commanding presence that could be blamed. He was an Old World King in a New World Setting and people reacted to him instinctively.

Arthur led them to the best area in the entire club; Merlin had never been near it before as he had never been part of a rich prat's group of friends before, not in this life time. Merlin was the first to claim a seat, followed by Arthur who slipped past him and parked himself down next to him. Lance offered to get the first round and asked for their orders. When Merlin voiced his Arthur called him a girl and Leon guffawed, quickly morphing it in to a cough when Merlin threw a dark look at him. A look that just made Gwaine smirk and turn to Percy, saying, "How cute; the baby's trying to be scary."

"You realise he can obliterate you with a thought, right?" Leon asked, ginger eyebrows lifting in a manner that clearly said: _what do you think you're playing at, you moron_. Everyone glanced sideways at the sorcerer in question and he flushed, ducking his head down. He could not yet remember telling them he was a sorcerer in his previous life, but he must have done so, considering the many legends that depicted him as a wizard – and the Court Sorcerer, no less – but that was bullshit; his memories quite clearly showed him as nothing more than a manservant, status-wise.

"It takes more than a thought," said Merlin, objecting quietly after a surreptitious glance around. "It's like anything else; it requires energy. You can lift a pencil because it hardly takes any energy at all, but the heavier the item the more it takes out of you, which is why you have to practice to increase your stamina. The strength of your gifts depends on how often they're used; you can get rusty – some people can lose their gift completely. There are some born with gifts strong enough that it manifests from birth, but most...most come into theirs during puberty or later, getting stronger the more they use it. On top of that, as you get older, more mature, you get stronger again – so long as you practice."

"Is that why Dumbledore was such a fuckin' bad ass?" Gwaine asked, giving Merlin an appraising look. It was Gwaine's turn to receive sidelong looks from the other Knights. He shrugged one shoulder carelessly. "What? They were great movies!"

"What? No! _The Lord of the Rings_ were great movies; the Harry Potter ones were _okay _movies," said Merlin, indignantly protesting Gwaine's words. "The Harry Potter franchise would have been better off with an anime series! There would have been, like, one series per book and the opening titles would've been fucking awesome, but always ending on those iconic notes of Hedwig's Theme. They could have fit in everything – all the details the movies missed, like Harry meeting Neville's parents in St Mungo's and going in to a complete rage in Dumbledore's office after Sirius was killed in battle – and could have had really amazing spin-offs about the Marauders and the Founders and the Knights of the Round Table." Here, he grinned like an idiot, because he _knew_ it would have been absolutely brilliant. "Apparently, my best friend was a Knight named Cadogan, whose special ability, according to Pottermore, was insane bravery!"

Arthur was staring at him, half as if he had grown an extra head and half-fondly, but the others were laughing and Merlin had a funny feeling that it was at him rather than with him. Except Lance, who had returned from the bar, setting a tray laden with beverages on the table. "I agree," he said, raising his hand for a high-five. Merlin complied immediately, eagerly, only barely catching the icy stare that Arthur gave Lance. His insides squirmed at the sight of it, though he was uncertain why he found such a glacial demeanour attractive.

Lance ignored the look Arthur had sent him, smiling away as if it amused him in some secret way, and took his seat, wrapping his hand around his pint of Theakston's Old Peculier – a rich, dark and smooth-tasting ale, which Arthur had also ordered for himself. Leon had a Ridgeway Bitter – a wholesome, slightly sweet, bready maltiness offset by a strong but subtle hop bitterness in the nose and on the palate. Gwaine had himself a Laphroaig Whiskey – a full-bodied and rather dry whiskey that was very peaty, very smoky, salty and medicinal with some malty nuttiness, a little citrus zest and black pepper, carrying with it a pungent earthy aroma of blue peat smoke with wafts of seashore and hints of vanilla oakiness.

Percy was left as the designated driver and Merlin had a moment's worth of sympathy for him; he could imagine what Gwaine was like when he was almost in a drunken stupor. He took a sip of his Captain Morgan-Fizzy Orange combo, smiling appreciatively at the combined flavours. "So," said Gwaine, sipping his whiskey, "you never answered my question." Merlin sighed and set down his glass, but did answer the question in the end. When he was finished explaining, Gwaine peered at him across his glass and his mouth curved in to an expression straight off the Barack Obama 'Not Bad' Meme as he nodded his head.

Arthur raised his pint, eyes drifting closed in pleasure as he took the first swig. After a moment he lowered it back to the table, eyeing Merlin with an intense curiosity as he did so. "Which category are you?" Merlin sipped his drink and did not answer, but it must have been written all over his face for Arthur's eyebrows rose incredulously. The others exchanged glances and rested their elbows on the table, leaning slightly forward almost conspiratorially. "Tell me you're joking."

"Wish I was," said Merlin, grimacing. "It'd have saved me a lot of bother, to be honest. It was always a struggle to keep it under control in school, especially when royal prats used to go around like they owned the place, treating the people they considered inferior like crap." He raised a brow at Arthur, as if to say: _remind you of anyone?_ "I could've wiped the floor with them a hundred times over and not break a sweat, instead I had to keep my head down, act like I was normal and not draw suspicion on the family. One time, I stopped a cat from getting run over and my mother spanked me so hard I could hardly sit for a week."

"Merlin, even when you're trying to be normal, you're never normal," said Arthur, smirking. The sorcerer in question narrowed his eyes at him, unable to tell whether the man was joking or being entirely serious. "It figures that a sorcerer would be under my nose the entire time. I can't believe you told me and I didn't believe you. I mean, you have to be the most incompetent liar on the face of the planet!"

The young sorcerer snorted disbelievingly. "It's not my fault you couldn't put two and two together and get four. Besides, it's not like there's a neon sign over my head proclaiming that I'm Harry freakin' Potter." Glancing around, he continued, "In all honesty, you have to be a sorcerer to recognise a sorcerer when you see one. See, your magic is alive under your skin, so when it comes in to contact with something magical it starts to react, swirling, trying to get out, though it might not always be a positive reaction. And sometimes a powerful sorcerer can cloak their magic, even subconsciously, to keep themselves hidden; that's what happened with Nimueh when she infiltrated Bayard's ranks."

"So you're not infallible."

Merlin frowned. "No one's infallible, Arthur." He sipped his drink and avoided looking at the man, though he could still feel Arthur's gaze burning a hole in his forehead. "We all have our weaknesses, whether we're prepared to admit it or not." His tone left no room for argument and no room for further discussion of the topic. Instead, the conversation turned towards the social instability in the United Kingdom and Ian Killer's rather aggressive approach to the situation. The topic left a sour taste in his mouth, but he did not dissuade the others from discussing it.

Though why anyone would want to discuss politics and the need for social changes while they were supposed to be clubbing would always baffle him. As the night progressed, with Percy and Gwaine buying the second and third rounds respectively, Merlin found himself unwinding. He felt he belonged there and was suddenly glad Arthur and the gang had dragged him out of the house. There was also the matter of The Isle's amazing music selection; Merlin could hardly help muttering along with the singers sometimes, moving his head in time with the beat, despite the amused glances Prince Prat kept throwing him.

After the third round, Gwaine lost himself on the floor, dancing with any number of stunning women, who were all over him like vultures. It brought an amused smile to Merlin's mouth; it figured that Gwaine would be the womanising type in this life. He shook his head, grinning, and took a sip of his drink. Turning his head slightly, he listened as Arthur and Lance argued over some football match that had been played recently, stating the reasons why X player deserved the yellow and red cards the referee threw at him.

Normally, he did not give a crap about sports – except Tennis, because Tennis was fantastic and he enjoyed watching the men bend over while waiting for a serve – but it was nice listening to Arthur rant about something that had nothing to do with sorcery or his father's inability to be pleased or feeling that he had a destiny he would never escape. In short, the man was getting the chance to be a normal human being for once, instead of a Prince who was expected to act a certain way in and out of the public's line of sight.

A fond smile tugged at the corner of Merlin's mouth and then he mentally berated himself for being so attached to the group he was with. He was not supposed to forget the fact that he was starting from scratch with these men, but he seemed unable to stop himself from doing so, from acting as if they were back in the old days, horsing around. Gwaine's return sometime later – when the others had just finished the drinks they had been nursing – brought Merlin's thoughts crashing to an end as he refocused upon the situation at hand.

Gwaine downed his drink in one swallow and grinned, saying, "Who's going up for a round this time?"

"Merlin," said Arthur authoritatively, fishing his credit card out of his wallet. He leaned in close to said sorcerer's side, bringing his lips to his ear; Merlin had to struggle not to shudder, though he was sure his face was aflame – luckily the alcohol he had imbibed was a good cover. He murmured the pin number and somehow Merlin managed to hear it over not only the music but his frantically beating heart, too. Arthur pressed the card into Merlin's hand and gave him a slight shove when Merlin seemed frozen to the seat.

Merlin rose unsteadily to his feet, hoping to God the others would believe he was just unable to hold his drink, and made his way to the bar, half-dancing his way through the crowd. The barman seemed to know he was with Arthur Pendragon and Company, for he was seen to pretty quickly. He rattled off the list of drinks and nearly jumped out of his skin when someone slipped up next to him without his noticing, resting a flirtatious hand against his elbow as he waited for the barman to get his order together. "Couldn't help but notice the t-shirt, mate; nice Devil's Trap."

He looked up in surprise. The man beside him was tall and dark-haired with a nice jaw-line, clad in clothes that highlighted his muscular build. His creamy complexion seemed ethereal in the club-lighting. His eyes were a rich dark brown. The man was attractive, equal in measure to Arthur and yet...not. Merlin was certain it was a bad thing that he thought no one could compare to Arthur at this juncture. His surprise eased in to a smile and he shrugged. "You know what they say, never leave the house without protection."

The man smirked. "Wise decision; I've been told I'm a Demon. You must be an Angel, of course."

Merlin ducked his head and laughed disbelievingly, unable to get over the fact that this man – this very attractive man – was _flirting with him_ using Supernatural-themed pick-up lines. It was surreal, but he found he liked it in a weird way. It had been a long time since anyone had shown interest of a sexual nature, which he assumed had more to do with the fact that he normally stuck to his friends like superglue. He looked up, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I wouldn't be so sure of that; I'm pretty dangerous."

"I bet you are." The man rested against the bar, leaning in slightly, casting a light shadow over him. "The name's Harry."

"Merlin," was the response, tinged slightly with apprehension. People normally laughed and said he was pulling their leg when he told them, but Harry's response a moment later was a pleasant surprise.

Harry clucked his tongue and shook his head, his smirk broadening. "Two wizards under one roof; that's a recipe for trouble, I think. We'll have to see who has the bigger wand one day." Colour flared in Merlin's cheeks at that, but he had no time to reply for the man flicked his gaze past him and then back again. "Jealous boyfriend?"

Merlin looked over his shoulder in surprise, eyes narrowing in irritation when he spotted Arthur staring at him, expression glacial, through the crowd. "What? Arthur? No," said Merlin, turning his face away to avoid running over and punching the cock-blocking bastard, "he's just a friend." The first explanation that came to mind tumbled out of his mouth before his brain could edit it. "We LARP together; I guess he's taking his role a bit seriously tonight."

Harry laughed, the sound a sincere staccato burst of amusement that made Merlin feel warm all over. The man grinned. "With a name like yours, you must be the Court Sorcerer."

"Manservant, actually."

"Sounds like someone's magic fingers are being wasted."

"You have no idea," said Merlin conspiratorially, just as the barman placed the last order on a tray and informed him of the price. Merlin waved the credit card and had the machine pushed towards him. He slipped the card in to the slot and, covering the buttons with one hand, typed in the pin number. He glanced at Harry as he withdrew the credit card. "Let me drop this over to the table and I'll be right back, yeah?" The man smiled and tipped his head forward slightly in understanding.

Merlin grinned and hefted the tray laden with drinks, throwing the man a heated look over his shoulder as he made his way over to the table. But Harry was not looking at him; instead, the man was writing something on a napkin. A jolt of anticipation shot through his spine at the sight. He quickly turned his face away so that he would not embarrass himself by tripping. As he approached the table Arthur rose from his seat, expression stony, and barrelled past him without a word. It felt like a slap. "What the hell's his problem?" Merlin demanded, turning his head to watch him storm across the dance floor towards the backdoor. "Is he homophobic or something?!"

"Nah, mate," said Leon, his expression sombre. "It's nothing to do with you, actually. The song playing now – _My Way_ by Limp Bizkit – has always had this effect on him."

"Why?"

"He was listening to it, on his walkman, when his father's skull burst open with the force of a bullet, right in front of him," the man explained, his tone tinged with sorrow and sympathy. "Uther told him to put it away before the speech opened and Arthur flipped him the bird and turned the volume up. When Uther was shot he toppled backwards and knocked Arthur to the floor of the stage that'd been set up for the afternoon. Morgana – only fourteen at the time – was in hysterics, diving on top of them both, hands trying to put his brain matter and his skull back together, and Arthur...God, I'd never seen him so emotional before. It was horrible."

"Oh, my God." Merlin stared, his mind reeling. It was a good thing he had already put the tray and credit card down on the table, for his hands were trembling almost violently. "You were there?"

"In the crowd, yeah." The song was not even over when it was cut off mid-sentence and The Smiths' _How Soon Is Now_ came on instead. "And that'd be Morgana giving the DJ hell at the other side of the club. Arthur gets stony when the song comes on; Morgana gets violent on his behalf."

"That doesn't surprise me," said Gwaine, sneering in distaste before sipping his whiskey.

Everyone ignored the man's comment. Merlin nibbled his bottom lip worriedly. "Should I go after him?"

Lance shook his head fractionally. "Right now, he needs to be left alone; he'll come back in when he's ready. Get back over to your...ah...new friend, distract yourself for a while." Merlin hesitated for a moment, but decided that Lance was right. With that in mind he took a sip of his drink and made his way back over to the bar, where Harry was waiting, raking his heated gaze up Merlin's legs and to his face in a painfully slow manner that sent a thrill down Merlin's spine. When he neared Harry, the man reached out and wrapped a firm but gentle hand around his wrist and tossed his head to the side in a manner that suggested he wanted to dance.

Merlin followed him willingly, allowing himself to be led out onto the dance floor. The first half of the song was spent with him almost injuring everyone near him with his elbows and the other half was spent laughing as Harry, clearly amused by Merlin's terrible dancing, took hold of him and tried to guide him through less lethal dance moves. Their hips and legs brushed together more often than Merlin could count, but that did not matter much; his hormones were cheerleading and Harry seemed pleased by the dynamics.

The next song to play was Motley Crue's _Kick-start My Heart_, a nice upbeat number that Merlin appreciated. He was laughing and grinning the whole time, his cheeks flushed from the mix of exertion, alcohol and touches that made his heart pound against his ribs. They danced their way through five songs in total before Merlin, laughing breathlessly, said he could dance no more without the risk of falling over. Harry laughed, said it was fine and stepped closer, almost flush against Merlin's body.

The sorcerer's breath hitched noticeably when Harry's hand slipped slightly down the waistband of his jeans. "See you around, Merlin," he said in to Merlin's ear, lips brushing sinfully against the shell. With a wink and a smirk the man disappeared into the crowd, leaving Merlin standing there, utterly gobsmacked. He looked down at his waistband and noticed something sticking out of it. Slipping it out he was startled to realise it was the napkin Harry had been writing on earlier. Unfolding it, he read the message there. It said: _if you ever feel like a promotion_, followed by a winking face and a mobile phone number.

Something warm pooled in his abdomen and, smiling, he slipped the napkin into his pocket. He made his way back towards the table, but found his path suddenly hindered by the presence of the dark-haired woman from the night his father had vanished. _Morgana_, he thought, startled. At the sight of her his brain erupted in searing pain and an ocean of memories crashed over him; a varying compilation of positive and negative memories.

_Arthur, Merlin, Gwen and Morgana were leading the people of Ealdor against the forces of Kanen. The image changed. Merlin and Gaius were discussing the possibility of Morgana possessing magical abilities – the gift of prophecy, most importantly. The image changed. Merlin ran after Morgana, who had fled Camelot, unknowingly leading the Knights to the Druid Camp. The leader of the Druids, a bald, dark-skinned man with kind eyes, lost his life in an escape attempt with Morgana. So many images._

_Arthur and Merlin lay hidden beneath an outcropping of rock and earth and roots, the former's hand pressed against Merlin's mouth, keeping him silent as Morgana and her hoard passed overhead. The image changed. Merlin, aged by magic, raced across the land on horseback, desperation blatant in his expression. At Camlann he mounted the top of the rock-face, staff in hand as he called down the power of the old magic. All around vast quantities of Saxons and followers of Morgana fell at his hand, Arthur whirling around to stare up at the source, mouth slack with shock and eyes wide with recognition, but not true recognition._

_The image changed. Merlin's heart ruptured in his chest as he spotted a wounded Arthur sprawled out over the ground, back half-leaning against a small mound. He fell on him, face panicked, as his fingers sought Arthur's throat, needing to be sure he was not dead. Then, he was hauling him up from the ground, almost buckling under his weight, but he pushed on. He had to. The image changed. Arthur, lying on the ground, kept elevated by a bundle, came to and saw Merlin, young again, sitting next to a camp fire. "Merlin," he said, his surprise evident._

_Merlin whirled around, got to his feet and stumbled over. "How're you feeling?" Arthur tried to move, to sit up, and suddenly he was crying out and gasping, writhing in pain. "Lie back," Merlin urged, hand on his shoulder._

_Arthur gripped him tight, hand resting on his shoulder, close, so close to his throat. "Where have you been?"_

"_Doesn't matter now," said Merlin, hand coming to cover Arthur's._

_Arthur grimaced in pain, his body twitching. "My side!"_

"_You are bleeding," Merlin observed, eyes seeking out the mentioned area. _

_Arthur panted hard. "Well, that's alright; I thought I was dying."_

_Merlin's hand tightened around Arthur's. He shifted slightly, moving closer. "I'm sorry; I thought I had defied the prophecy. I thought I was on time."_

"_What are you talking about?" Arthur shook his head, thinking he was babbling nonsense._

_Merlin's face began crumbling, but he tried to keep it together. "I defeated the Saxons...the Dragon...and yet I knew it was Mordred that I must stop."_

_Throughout this explanation Arthur stared at him, confused and fond simultaneously. He patted Merlin's shoulder almost consolingly. "The person who defeated them was the sorcerer."_

_Merlin's composure fractured. "It was me."_

"_Don't be ridiculous, Merlin." Arthur's voice was quiet, almost sad, but he was obviously unwilling to believe him. But slowly, as Merlin struggled not to weep, Arthur's expression began altering. "This is stupid. What...Why would you say that?!"_

"_I'm a –" Merlin shook his head, mouth trembling, eyebrows quivering. His voice was choked up with tears. "I'm a sorcerer; I have magic." Arthur stared, bottom lip twitching fractionally. "I use it for you, Arthur; only for you!"_

"_Merlin, you are NOT a sorcere; I would know!" Arthur's hand moved from his shoulder to just beneath Merlin's chin, fingertips almost grazing the skin._

"_Look! Here!" Merlin turned towards the campfire and held his hand out. A murmured phrase. A flash of gold eyes. A Dragon comprised of burning embers hovered above the fire, wings flapping. After a moment it faded and Merlin turned towards Arthur once more, but his heart broke at the sight that met him. Arthur made a noise, somewhere between grief and anger, turning his face away for a long moment, before looking at Merlin again. His face was alive with hurt, with betrayal._

"_Leave me."_

"_Arthur –"_

"_Don't! Just – you heard! Just –" Merlin hesitated for a moment, but moved away when the fallen King struggled to get away from him. The image changed._

_Merlin approached his King. "Arthur, we need to leave at first light."_

_Arthur rolled his head in his direction, but did not look at him fully, as if he could not bear the sight of him. "I'll decide." His words were a sigh filled with derision._

"_I can't let you die." Merlin's pain was blatant._

_Arthur turned his face away. "Doesn't change anything." The image changed._

_They were riding cross-country, Arthur leaning heavily upon his horse. "Saxons," said Merlin suddenly, dismounting. He threw a cloak over Arthur. "I'll deal with them. Keep your head down; don't speak!" His eyes flashed a rusty gold, starting a fire in the distant forest. "Help us," he called out to the Saxons, waving them over. "Please! You have to help us! We were ambushed."_

"_By who?"_

"_These...two men."_

"_What'd they look like?"_

"_Uh...One was a Knight. They stormed our camp."_

"_Are you sure it was a Camelot Knight...?"_

"_Yeah." The Saxon's eyes narrowed suspiciously and he looked towards Arthur on the horse. A moment later Merlin's eyes turned vivid gold and he raised his hands. The Saxons, screaming, went flying, landing hard upon the ground several feet away. He could feel Arthur's hard blue eyes burning into his back._

"_You have lied to me all this time." The image changed. "I thought I knew you."_

"_I'm still the same person!"_

"_I trusted you."_

"_I'm sorry."_

"_I'm sorry, too." The image changed. Merlin knelt by Arthur's side, trying to spoon-feed him. "Why are you doing this? Why are you still acting like a servant?!"_

_Merlin set the bowl aside and gazed at his King with a solemn expression. "It's my destiny, as it has been since the day we met."_

_Arthur blinked and half-grinned at him. "I tried to take your head off with a mace."_

"_And I stopped you, using magic."_

_Arthur looked at him and growled. "You cheated!"_

_Merlin let out a huff of laughter. "You were going to kill me."_

"_I should have."_

_The mood turned serious once more. "I'm glad you didn't." Merlin leaned in close, though Arthur was no longer looking at him. "I do this because of who you are. Without you, Camelot's nothing." After some time, Merlin said, "I also do this because you're my friend and I don't want to lose you." He brought the spoon to Arthur's lips once more and the man took it, blue eyes drifting closed as he swallowed. The image changed. Arthur's weak body began to tumble down from where it was seated and Merlin, hearing the commotion, moved away from the horse he had been readying. "Arthur, you need to hold on!" He helped Arthur right himself, hands lingering. "One more day." _

_Merlin dabbed a cloth against Arthur's face, wiping away the sweat, the grime, fingertips gently, lovingly brushing his skin in the process. Arthur half-leaned against him. "Why did you never tell me?" Though the words were strong, the tone...was broken and spoke of the pain Arthur felt inside at Merlin's betrayal. His heart pounded in his chest at the sound of it._

"_I wanted to, but..."_

_Arthur tilted his face towards him. "What?"_

"_You'd have chopped my head off." Merlin was only half-joking and that was part of the problem. He helped Arthur drink from the wineskin. _

"_I'm not sure what I'd have done."_

_Merlin swallowed and leaned closer. "I didn't want to put you in that position."_

_Arthur looked at him, half-fond and half-disbelieving. "That's what worried you?" The image changed. Arthur slumped on his horse, eyes drifting closed, and Merlin hurried towards him. "I can't go on."_

"_There's not far to go; we can reach the lake before dawn."_

_The King shook his head weakly. "No, Merlin. No." The image changed. Merlin looked around nervously. "Merlin...whatever happens..."_

_Merlin looked at him, pained and determined simultaneously. "Shush; don't talk."_

"_I'm the King, Merlin; you can't tell me what to do."_

_The sorcerer half-laughed and shook his head. "I always have; I'm not going to change now."_

_Arthur looked at him, fear and pain and affection all mixed in to one devastating expression. "I don't want you to change. I want you...to always...be you." The King lowered his head, as if he could no longer bear the emotion welling inside him. He raised a tired hand, tried to point at him. "I'm sorry about how I treated you." _

_Merlin gripped him tightly, afraid to let go. "Something tells me you're going to give me a day off."_

"_Two," said Arthur, raising his head, looking at him with wide eyes._

_A smile tugged at his mouth. "That's generous." Arthur's eyes drifted slowly closed and his head grew heavy; Merlin's hand found his throat, his cheek quickly, bestowing a loving caress. "Get some sleep." The image changed. Morgana clutched him tightly, mouth open in a gasp of pain, of shock as Merlin drove Excalibur through her abdomen. Slowly, she fell to the ground, the life leaving her as she stared up, unseeing. The image changed. Merlin struggled to carry Arthur, falling under his weight. "I'm not going to lose you!"_

_Arthur leaned his head back against Merlin's shoulder, his chin. His hands found Merlin's and hugged them closer to his torso. "Just...just hold me. Please." Merlin panted hard, but did as he was told, arms tightening around him. "There's s-something I want to say."_

"_You're not going to say goodbye."_

"_No." Arthur shook his head weakly, lips forming the word again. He struggled to turn, to look up at Merlin's face. "Everything you've done...I know now...for me...for Camelot...for the Kingdom you helped me build."_

"_You'd have done it without me."_

"_Maybe." It was obvious the man did not believe his own word. "I want to say something I've never s-said to you before." The ghost of a smile touched his mouth and he reached up, losing his fingers in Merlin's hair. "Thank you." Arthur began to fade, eyes rolling up into the back of his head. Merlin, panicked, cried out to him, shaking him. For a moment Arthur's eyes opened once more and he looked at Merlin; hope sparked in the sorcerer's heart, only to crumble when the King continued to fade. _

Merlin jerked backwards, away from Morgana, hands rising to clutch his head as the pain tripled. Tears streamed down his face and a soundless screamed tore at his throat. The music in the background, Bryan Adams' _Sound the Bugle_ – a rare break away from the usual fare – did not help matters. "Get the fuck away from me," he said, words choking out through his constricted throat.

"I'm sorry." Her words were urgent, filled with sincerity but he could not believe her. Merlin stumbled away from her, trying to get away, but Morgana was persistent. She reached out for him, pale hands wrapping around his upper arms, gripping tight, and his knees buckled. Morgana struggled to keep him upright as his body started shaking violently. "I never meant to become that woman! I swear it!" Merlin's magic lashed at his restraints, crumbling them, flying free. His skin started glowing as the shaking intensified. "I'm so sorry."

"Get your filthy fucking hands off him," said a voice, trembling with unbridled rage. Merlin thought it was Gwaine, but he could not think, not really. The pain was too intense, the glare of his skin too blinding. His vision swam and he saw nothing but black...

To Be Continued.

All the raw feelings Merlin's going through right now. Ouch; I feel his pain. *heartbreak* 


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Man with the Dragon Tattoo – Chapter Six.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed this fic so far. Yeah, I did forget to mention Morglain in the listing of side pairings in the opening chapter. My bad! **Warning** - There be some feels in this chapter; I can shamelessly admit that I cried while writing some of it.

Chapter Six: Photograph

_He was falling, tumbling head over arse, through a tunnel of white light that caressed his skin, soothed his heart and wiped the trace of tears from his cheeks. Suddenly his downward progress was halted, his body impacting hard with a solid surface, a pained grunt pushing its way past his clenched jaw; it was only the swirling magic beneath his skin that kept him from shattering at the collision. After a moment his eyes drifted open and Merlin found himself sprawled across a footpath on Oxford Street._

_Blinking in surprise, he climbed to his feet and looked around, hands on his hips. It was the Oxford Street he knew and yet there was something about it that he could not quite put his finger on. When a man strode past, newspaper opened in front of him, Merlin fell into step with him, looking over his shoulder. Noticing the date he jerked backwards, his spine set in a rigid line as his eyes widened almost comically. Apparently, it was the thirty-first of July, 1994. "This is not normal," he said, before slapping a hand over his mouth._

_But no one was paying attention to him; it was as if he had ceased to exist. To test his theory, Merlin swung his arm in a violent arch towards an oncoming pedestrian. His hand passed right through the woman's shoulder and she continued on without once looking up at him. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward, hands gripping his hips too tightly in an effort to snap himself out of this bizarre hallucination. However, a familiar voice, not yet deepened by puberty, called his attention. "Come on, 'Gana; hurry up!"_

"_You know I hate that nickname, you prat, and it's not my fault you're practically leaping down the road like a bloody gazelle." Merlin whirled around, eyes snapping open to take in the sight of Arthur Pendragon, barely eleven years old, walking towards him. He was all blond hair, blue eyes, golden skin and a smile that would have old grannies cooing in delight. At his side, huge and powerful and black and white in colour, was a dog – a cross between a Siberian Husky and a German Shepherd, judging by its height and bulk._

_The animal was bigger than Arthur was, but seemed perfectly trained; it did not once pull on the fraying leash that the former King gripped in his hand. Trailing along behind them was Morgana, only seven years old, who looked like she would rather be anywhere else than with her older brother. "Don't be a baby," said Arthur, looking back over his shoulder with a haughty smile that was ridiculously adorable on his cherubic face. "You always tell Father that you're big enough to go through London without him; why are you complaining now?"_

_Merlin's heart pounded painfully in his chest. He stared, swivelling unconsciously on the balls of his feet, as they passed him. "Because I don't need you, either!" The boy's response was to laugh and toss his hair with a flick of his head. A small smile tugged at Merlin's mouth and he followed along behind them as they made their way towards their destination, which turned out to be none other than Forbidden Planet. "Father's going to kill you," Morgana said conversationally. "You know what he thinks about that Superpower nonsense."_

"_What he doesn't know won't hurt him – besides, it's not like there's anything special about Iron Man. He's just a rich guy in a high-tech suit. Other than that, he's completely normal," Arthur replied as he tied the dog's leash to the nearest vertical item. He met the dog's blue-eyed stare and said authoritatively, "look after her, yeah?" The dog butted his face against the boy's shoulder as though he had understood him. Arthur looked at Morgana and stared at her intensely. "Stay here."_

"_Yes, Mum." Her voice was sickly sweet as she spoke to him, but as soon as Arthur had turned his back she made a face at him._

"_Stop making faces." Morgana startled at the command, unable to believe that he had known what she was doing. Merlin grinned, watching Arthur disappear in to the shop, leaving his sister alone with the dog. He wanted nothing more than to follow the boy inside but something was telling him he needed to remain where he was, keep an eye on Morgana while she was virtually alone. Almost ten minutes passed without incident, but then in the same moment Merlin and Morgana noticed the same thing._

_A dark-skinned girl, no older than Morgana and wearing a yellow sundress, her black curls flying like a banner behind her, was running flat-out at the other side of the street. A bunch of boys were chasing her, their expressions menacing. Merlin sucked in a breath when he realised that the girl was Gwen. Morgana's face filled with an unimaginable darkness and without a word she stomped forward, her hands curled into fists at her sides. She was almost across, not even noticing the oncoming traffic, when Arthur stepped out of the shop, a new comic book in his hand._

_The dog was snarling and pulling against his restraints. The leash snapped, the sound startling Arthur, who was frozen with shock. The dog tore across the street and collided with Morgana's back, sending her stumbling forward with a cry of surprise, knocking her out of the trajectory of an oncoming car. The world crumbled beneath Merlin's feet as several things happened at once; a squeal of rubber against the surface of the road; a whimper loud enough to burst eardrums; Arthur's grief-stricken scream. _

_The comic book lay forgotten on the footpath._

_The world swirled, dissolving around him and Merlin suffered through the sensation of being squeezed through a tube of toothpaste, before the world began reassembling itself once more. He found himself in a completely different location. He was in a room this time; a bedroom with cream walls and lightwood furniture and a large window that allowed sunlight to pass through in large bursts. There was a library case stuffed to bursting with books, but there was not a cuddly toy in sight._

_He moved towards the dresser, where several framed photographs were displayed prominently. The photograph at the very front was of the dog that had died on Oxford Street, losing his life in the place of Morgana's, following Arthur's order to the letter. Merlin's heart clenched painfully in his chest as he read the inscription written on the frame; In Loving Memory of Prince, My Best Friend. The photographs in the next row were of Morgana and Gwen in one and Morgana and Arthur in the other._

_In the first the girls were wearing sundresses and had pretty flowers in their dark hair; Morgana was pale, paler than normal, though the skin around her eyes was bruised. She had either been crying and rubbing at the skin or had been sleeping poorly prior to the day the photograph was taken. Gwen had her arm wrapped around her, squeezing tightly, as if Morgana might break in to pieces if she let go. It was obvious it had been taken sometime after Prince's death, but not much after._

_In the second it was Arthur's tenth birthday party; it was the same photograph from Arthur's office wall, the one where Morgana was shoving his face into his cake, a wicked smile on her face. He let out a huff of laughter; it was unsurprising that she was fond of that photograph, the evil brat. The next few rows were more of Morgana, accompanied by Gwen or Arthur or both simultaneously. At the back, the very back, almost hidden from view, was a picture of Morgana and Uther, the latter standing behind her, an icy presence in a life that should have been filled with warmth. Morgana's expression was tight, a mix of pain and anger and disgust and the urge to flee. Her small hands were curled into fists; she was only nine in that one._

_The photographs did not depict her as a teenager or as a young woman, indicating that she was young, still a mere child. He nibbled his lower lip, knowing he was intruding upon her life, feeling guilty for it and yet it was sorrow that overwhelmed his heart, his mind. Merlin rubbed the back of his neck, wondering how similarly her life in Camelot had been – probably not much different at all, despite the time gap. Just as that thought crossed his mind the bedroom door burst open and Morgana ran inside, slamming the door shut behind her._

_She leaned heavily against the door, head thudding hard enough against the wood that Merlin winced in sympathy. Squeezing her eyes shut, her mouth tightening, she pushed away from it, crossing the room to stand at the window. Merlin followed after her, standing beside her as she rested her head against the window frame. Her body trembled, twice, violently and her face suddenly crumpled, tears spilling down her cheeks in rivulets. Her chest heaved and she kicked and pummelled the wall beside her without mercy, until she could do so no longer, sinking down to her knees in a pool of sunlight, fingers splayed against the wall as if she could draw its strength in to herself._

_Throat constricting in rising misery at the sight of such a pained little girl, he reached out as if to comfort her. His hands passed through her, utterly useless. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head and looked at her again. "I'm not a monster; I'm not evil," Morgana whispered, the words forcing their way passed her clogged-up throat. She ran her hand across her face, trying to destroy the evidence of her weakness, but the tears kept coming. "Sorcery isn't evil." Her words carried the strength of her convictions and, God, Merlin knew how she felt._

_Morgana moved, then, half-crawling under her bed, hands reaching, fingers scratching, nails catching on a loose floorboard. He watched as she retrieved a package hidden in a brown paper bag. She pulled back and sat with her back braced against the wall beneath the window. With trembling fingers she opened the bag and slipped her hand inside, pulling out a book. Merlin noted the cover and blinked in surprise; it was a copy of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ by JK Rowling. He leaned over her to read the small note written on the inside cover. It said: I managed to save it from one of the fires that went down in my part of town. Don't let Uther catch you with it or it's my arse on the line. Love, Gwen._

"_The 1997 Book-Burning," Merlin exclaimed in surprise, feeling the need to slap his own forehead for not thinking of it sooner. Tears stung Merlin's eyes at the thought of so many books destroyed, so many worlds...gone. He had been only six at the time, still living in Cardiff, but he could remember the way his father had wept, the way his mother had clutched him to her chest as if he, too, would burn if she let him go. Before he could see anymore of Morgana reading that treasured book, that swirling, squeezing sensation returned and he found himself thrown in to a new memory._

_He was in an office this time and it was immediately recognisable. The desk, the window, the case full of books; this was Uther Pendragon's office. This was the Prime Minister's office. His insides squirmed with discomfort at the idea. Uther's icy presence made him feel like he should not be there – which, he supposed, was the truth. Morgana, fourteen and blossoming in to her future womanhood, threw open the office door, despite the harassed-looking secretary that followed after her, sputtering in shock and affront at having been so rudely ignored._

_Uther raised his steely gaze from the tie he had been in the middle of fixing and gave the secretary a look that clearly said: leave us. The secretary squeaked and vanished, pulling the door shut behind her, leaving Morgana alone with her forbidding father. "You're not going out there," said Morgana firmly, her pubescent voice carrying hints of the authoritative woman she would become one day. "I won't let you." The Prime Minister looked at her as though he were trying to determine whether she was being serious or failing to be funny. He finished tying his tie in protracted silence, lips pursed slightly. "Did you hear me?"_

"_Morgana –"_

"_If you don't shut up and listen to me right now I'm going to walk out of here and I'll take Arthur with me."_

"_Arthur wouldn't –"_

"_Really? You think he wouldn't? You threw his comic book collection in the fire!"_

"_He knows my opinion on that rubbish; it's his own fault for breaking the rules – and getting caught, to boot."_

_Morgana's gaze took on a steely edge; it was an expression she shared with her father, no matter how much she may want to deny it. "And what about his sketchbooks? Years' worth of his drawings, his paintings, were destroyed when you incinerated them. How can you stand there and think yourself a good man when you've broken your son's heart a thousand times over?! Sod the rules! Your children's happiness is more important than your maniacal prejudice!"_

"_Better a broken heart than a mind corrupted by sorcery," snapped Uther, his shoulders tightening with mounting anger._

_He made an attempt to move past her, to head for the door as it was clear that he had somewhere to be, but Morgana caught his arm and gripped tight, her hand like a vulture's talon. Her expression was less angry and more panicked now. "If you go out there, you'll die! The man with the Dra –"_

_Uther whirled around, the back of his hand colliding sharply with her cheek. The slap of flesh against flesh was painfully audible. Merlin winced in sympathy as Morgana jerked backwards, eyes stinging with rising tears, her hand finding her cheek as she stumbled away from Uther in shock and pain and anger. "That's enough of your nonsense, Morgana; I'm not in the mood to hear about your dreams! They're just dreams!"_

"_I predicted Prince's death! I've predicted yours!"_

"_Lies," roared Uther, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His nostrils flared alongside his temper. "You are NOT a sorceress!"_

"_What the hell's going on here?" Uther and Morgana looked, as one, towards the door, where Arthur stood; his hand still gripped the door handle. At eighteen he looked almost the replica of his royal incarnation that first day in Camelot, clad as he was in his Pendragon-red hoodie. Muscular legs were encased in blue denim. His blue eyes flicked from Uther's irate stance to the growing red welt on Morgana's cheek, which she tried to hide by tilting her head, casting her face in shadow. But Arthur was no fool. _

_The young man's blue eyes filled with molten fury. He beckoned for Morgana to come to him and she did so, throwing a fleeting look at Uther, laden with pleading. Arthur embraced her, resting his chin on top of her dark tresses. Uther paid them no mind; instead, he spent a long moment brushing imaginary lint from his suit and shouldered past them, expression indifferent. Morgana's lips parted to say something, but Arthur shook his head slightly, arms tightening around her. "You know what he's like, 'Gana; no one else's thoughts or beliefs matter where magic's concerned."_

"_I hate him," she whispered, mouth contorting as she trembled against Arthur, tears slipping down her pale face._

"_No, you don't," sighed Arthur, squeezing her closer, his large hand resting against her shoulder blade. "Neither of us hates him and that's part of the problem. Now, come on; we've a stupid anti-magic rally to sneer during." He pulled back, turning away briefly to give her a modicum of privacy as Morgana got herself under control. Once she was ready she linked arms with her older brother and the pair of them followed after their father. Merlin hurried after them, not wanting to be left behind._

_He climbed in after them when they were bundled in to an intimidating black car with tinted windows – Uther was in the other car, even more intimidating and bearing flags. Merlin was glad he was not in that one; he was certain his insides would have frozen over due to the glacial vibes the man was throwing off. During the journey Arthur reached in to his pocket, retrieving a pair of earphones, slipping them in to his ears. There was a click as he pressed a button on his walkman. Merlin bit his lip, wanting to warn Arthur of what was coming, for he knew it, but the man would never hear him._

_When Arthur climbed out of the car, almost before it parked at its destination, Merlin and Morgana slid out after him, the former nervous and the latter pale with mounting terror. He followed them even as they followed Uther to a raised platform which overlooked a large grassy area, though it was black with people at this juncture. Some of them carried signs in protest of the Anti-Magic legislation, while the majority seemed to be in favour. Before he reached the platform, Uther turned and gave Arthur a sharp look. "Put it away. Now."_

"_Yes, sir," said Arthur, going through the motions until Uther seemed pleased, facing forward once more. Once his back was turned, however, Arthur flipped him the bird and slipped his earphones back in, turning up the volume. An arrogant smirk tugged at his mouth and Merlin's heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. It was unfair that, even with uneven teeth, Arthur was still a perfect specimen of male beauty. They followed Uther up the steps onto the platform, though they stood a few feet behind him when he approached the podium. _

_There were others gathered on the platform; important people, judging by the cut of their suits and the rigidity of their spines. Arthur threw them a glare and Merlin felt a jolt of pride shoot through him at the former King's obvious stance on the legislation. Merlin allowed his gaze to comb the crowd and spotted a familiar face; a lock of ginger hair falling in to his eyes, Leon leaned against a tree, arms folded across his strong chest. The look of burning recognition and loss and need to rush forward was as plain as day. _

_And Arthur had no clue the man was there or who he was. It was horrible. The poor bastard. Merlin shook his head and tore his gaze away, focusing on Uther's speech...on Arthur and Morgana. For almost three minutes Uther spoke, his words passionate, his hands gesticulating as he did so. Credit had to be given where it was due; the man was a phenomenal public speaker, even if his beliefs regarding magic were woefully incorrect and filled with bias. The more Uther spoke the paler Morgana grew, inching closer to Arthur's side. _

_Suddenly, Uther stopped speaking mid-word, the force of a sniper's bullet sending him toppling backwards, knocking Arthur to the floor in the process. Blood and skull fragments and brain matter were spattered across the podium, the floor of the platform, Uther's face. The expression on Arthur's face was devastating and Merlin wanted to turn away, to hide from the unbridled anguish, but he could not tear his eyes away. Morgana shrieked hysterically, tears flooding down her face as she dove on top of Arthur and the fallen frame of her father just like Leon had described, hands trying to put his brain, his skull back together. But even Merlin could tell it was too late._

_Uther Pendragon was dead._

_Before Merlin could blink he was thrown in to yet another memory. His cheeks flared with colour immediately; he was standing in a bedroom decked out in emerald green and dark wood and Morgana, sixteen years old, was not alone. She was wrapped up in the arms of Aglain, the former Druid leader that had died at the hands of the Knights of Camelot, though he looked to be no older than nineteen at that moment. Morgana's slightly flushed shoulders trembled and Aglain squeezed his arms around her in a comforting fashion._

_Merlin was definitely glad he had not arrived sooner. He thanked God that they were wrapped up in the blankets, because that was a part of Morgana that he never wanted to see. Ever. Plus, Arthur would murder him. "I don't want to be that woman," whispered Morgana, forcing Merlin to focus his attention on the matter at hand. The girl, nearly a woman, sounded so afraid in that moment, her voice trembling under the weight of her insecurities. "How could I have become so blinded by hatred?"_

_Kind-eyed Aglain looked down at his lover and ran a gentle hand through her sweat-soaked tresses. "Sometimes, we're so focused on doing what's right that we don't realise how far from the path we've strayed," he murmured. "Morgause's presence in your life didn't help matters. I'm not normally one to say that magic corrupts, but in her case...in her case it was true and she used you. You were vulnerable and so full of tumultuous emotions that you were ripe for the picking; she knew that. You were dealt an unfortunate hand of cards."_

"_I betrayed my family – my real family. Gwen...Merlin...Arthur. How can I ever look them in the eye, knowing what I became? What I did to them?" Morgana squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in Aglain's broad chest._

"_By acknowledging your mistakes, your wrongdoings and taking steps to correct them," answered Aglain, caressing her shoulder with his thumb. "Isn't it possible that this new life is your second chance? Your chance to make things right? You can't change the past, Morgana, but you can forge a new future just like anyone else. Our lives may run in patterns, but only to a certain extent; there is always time to divert the flow. Just think about it: you're sixteen and you've never met Morgause in this life thus far. You know what you became when she walked in to your life; you can avoid it if she tries it a second time. You can walk away from that existence. I believe in you."_

_Morgana tilted her head up and they kissed. It was a languid kiss filled with unspoken love and need; it made Merlin feel as though he had been kicked in the gut. He wanted that. He wanted someone to kiss him like that, holding him just so, and be content with life. He tore his gaze away, turning his face away, a hollow feeling seeping in to the pit of his stomach. He had intruded too much already upon this intimate moment between Morgana and the man that would one day become her husband._

_Luckily for him he was sucked out of there almost immediately, thrown out in to Covent Garden. He spotted Morgana, twenty years old and beautiful, striding through the bustling crowd like a woman on a mission. An engagement ring glittered prettily on her left hand. He followed behind her, watching intently. Someone bumped into her – an eleven year old child with dark hair, blue eyes and pale skin, wearing clothes that indicated he lived on the street – and managed to make it two steps past her before she whirled around, latching onto his arm with a vice-like grip. "Give it back," Morgana snapped, her gaze steely though it flickered with something akin to recognition. _

_Merlin realised why; the boy was none other than Mordred. "Give what back?" The boy blinked up at her unnervingly. _

"_My purse; I know you took it, you little pickpocket."_

"_I didn't take anythi –"_

"_I'm not a fool, Mordred; don't take me for one." Her mouth tightened at her slip as Mordred stepped back in surprise, before his face lit up. She, then, nodded her head, though the boy had said nothing aloud. Merlin knew he was speaking to her within her very mind; he had experienced the boy's penchant for it himself in the past. He frowned thoughtfully, wondering what conversation was passing unheard. When Mordred, pouting, reached in to his pocket and pulled out Morgana's purse, Merlin could not help but smile._

_Morgana straightened as she took the purse back into her possession, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She offered him her hand. "Come on, then; you look half-starved. Let's grab some lunch before you keel over." No one even looked twice at them as she led him across London, to one of her favourite bistros. Merlin was certain it was the hair and skin that made them look related to each other, but as he had similar traits he did not think on it too much. It mattered little in the end for he was spat out in to a new memory a moment later._

_He was now in the backseat of a posh car and there was a three year old girl with Morgana's hair and caramel skin strapped in to a booster-seat beside him. Morgana was in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Eyes filled with steel, she glared out through the windscreen at something in the distance. Mordred, seventeen, was waylaid by a man on his way out of his school's car-park, who spoke to him in low undertones that Merlin was unable to hear. The man was tall, carrying himself with pride, despite the burn scars that marred his face and neck. His tossed his mop of wavy blond hair out of his face as he took a drag on his cigarette. _

_Mordred eyed him and made to dart around him, but the man caught his wrist. The boy glowered at him, snapped a response and yanked his arm free, but froze at the sound of whatever the man had uttered next. Cursing like a sailor in a manner that made Merlin stare at her in surprise, Morgana threw open the car door and lunged out. Merlin went after her as she stormed across the distance separating her from Mordred. The boy looked at her and something like relief crossed his face. "Mum," he said, the word a sigh._

"_Get in the car," she bit out through clenched teeth. "Now." Mordred went without argument, throwing a dark look at the man that had ambushed him. The man eyed Morgana in amusement, blue gaze raking her suit-clad figure in an unnecessarily sexual manner. If she noticed the way he eyed her, she ignored it. "Touch my son again, Muirden, and I swear I'll hit you with a lawsuit so hard it'll become embedded in your worthless brain!"_

_Muirden exhaled a cloud of smoke in her face. To her credit, she did not even sputter a cough. "Touchy, aren't we?" said the man, an evil smirk dancing in his eyes. "Fallen into any comas, recently?" Morgana's hand came out of nowhere, slamming into the man's undamaged cheek, knocking his head sideways with the force of it. After a moment, he turned his head towards her once more, something predatory having crept in to his eyes. "Come now, Morgana, there's no need for that; I was only talking to him." _

"_If talking is a euphemism for recruiting, then, I have no doubt of it."_

"_Recruiting?" Muirden affected a scandalised expression and pressed his hand to his chest, over his heart – or rather, where his heart should have been. "You wound me, my Lady."_

_Morgana's mouth contorted in an angry snarl. "I'm not your Lady."_

_A slow smirk pulled at the corner of Muirden's mouth. "They all say that at first, but in the end...they eat their words."_

_He did not get a response from Morgana, other than her whirling around and striding back towards the car, her hackles raised. "Creep," she murmured as she climbed in to the car, pulling the door shut behind her. Mordred was seated in the front passenger seat, schoolbag down by his legs. She glanced sideways at him and her expression visibly softened. "What'd he say to you?"_

"_Some bullshit about fighting for our rights," the boy replied, frowning out the window. "I told him where to bloody stuff it; I don't want to get mixed up in that crowd. I could tell by the look of him that he really meant fighting, rather than peacefully protesting like we do. Having magic doesn't mean we have the right to use it to hurt people."_

"_That can't be all; I know he said more to you. What made you freeze up like that?"_

_Mordred swallowed thickly and turned his head, looking at Morgana with dread. "He said that he heard Amber's powers were starting to manifest and that we should be proud of her burgeoning talent. How the hell did he know that, Mum?" What little colour that had been present in the boy's face began seeping away. He glanced towards the little girl strapped in to the booster-seat, her caramel hands folded primly in her little lap. Amber, all dimples and dark eyes, grinned happily at him. "Are we being fucking watched?"_

"_Watch your language," scolded Morgana, avoiding the question as she started the car. She glanced in to the rear-view mirror and felt bolstered by the presence of her daughter. "We'll talk about this later, love."_

"_But –"_

"_Later," said Morgana, more firmly._

_Mordred sighed and rolled his eyes, turning his head to look out the window. "Fine, but no secrets."_

"_Is this about the nice man who climbs the telephone poles?" Amber asked curiously from her booster-seat, frowning at the back of Morgana's chair. Merlin startled and glanced in her direction, having forgotten that children could speak at that tender age. "He gives me lollipops when I make things do what I want."_

_Morgana and Mordred shared a look. The woman's mouth tightened and she glanced in the rear-view mirror again. "Don't do things like that anymore, no matter how many lollipops he offers you."_

"_But I like lollipops." Amber pouted and it was so adorable Merlin thought his heard might explode in his chest at the sight of it. Morgana grimaced, hands tightening around the steering wheel. "I'll do what you say, Mummy; I don't like you when you're angry." Merlin snorted in amusement, knowing that was the biggest understatement of the century. Nobody liked it when Morgana Pendragon was angry; people usually ended up with body parts forcibly removed or sliced open. Amber opened her mouth to say something else, but he never discovered what it was._

He jerked awake, his skin clammy, eyes snapping open instantly as he lurched upwards. A man's gentle hand tried to push him back down onto the bed – _when the hell did that happen_, Merlin thought in a moment of panic. His eyes followed the dark-skinned hand up a shirt-clad arm to a bald head. He recognised the man instantly; it was Aglain, Morgana's husband and former Druid leader. Beside him stood the woman herself, one pale wrist held gently in Aglain's hand. She gazed down at Merlin intensely, though there was a thinly-veiled haunted look to her green eyes.

The world start spinning and his rigid body immediately sagged against the mattress. "You're a little disorientated," said Aglain in a gentle tone, "that's perfectly normal for this situation; you're not supposed to get a tour through other peoples' memories, but we knew it would be the only way to get you to calm down. You're a nuclear explosion waiting to happen, did you know that? It's really frightening, actually. I'm definitely glad we managed to get you calmed; I can imagine the social and political damage the blast would do for sorcerers."

Morgana snorted and slapped his arm. "Leave him alone."

Merlin blinked several times, trying to get the world to stop spinning enough for him to focus on her. "How do I know any of that was real? Where the hell am I?"

Her expression tightened, but she did not answer him. Instead she walked across the room – small, hardly furnished and totally _bland_ in colour, as if it were just waiting for a personality to invade it – and opened the door. The room must have been sound-proofed for, as soon as the door was opened, a pounding beat from The Isle's loudspeakers made his head pound in a similar manner. Arthur, irritated beyond belief and concerned simultaneously, barrelled through the open door immediately, followed by Gwaine, who threw Morgana a dirty look.

"Ask him," Morgana bit out, folding her arms across her chest.

Arthur and Gwaine threw her bemused looks, but Merlin swallowed thickly. "Arthur...did you...have a dog when you were a kid?"

"Prince?" Arthur's bafflement doubled. "What does he have to do with anything?"

Merlin shook his head and gritted his teeth at the wave of dizziness that washed over him. "And an illicit comic book collection?"

"Yes."

"You did?" Gwaine asked, surprised, giving Arthur an appraising look. Merlin decided it was a good thing he had not mentioned the sketchbooks; he was certain Arthur would have died of mortification if Gwaine got his hands on such a juicy piece of information.

The former King scowled. "Didn't _you_?"

"Well, yeah, but...you were the Prime Minister's son! You go, Dumbledork!" Gwaine punched the man's arm, earning a huff of laughter and a grin.

The sorcerer looked at Morgana for a long moment. "Yeah," he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut briefly as if he might regret his next words, "okay. I believe you." For a second he thought the harpy might cry, but instead a small smile graced her mouth. She inclined her head in gratitude and respect. "How long do I have to wait for the dizziness to stop?"

"A few minutes at most," replied Aglain, vacating the bed – on the edge of which he had been sitting. The man rubbed his bald head tiredly, leaned in to murmur something in his wife's ear and headed out. At the door he paused and looked over his shoulder. A warm and sincere smile danced across his mouth. "It's good to see you again, Emrys; hopefully our acquaintance won't be so short-lived this time." With that he was gone, pulling the door gently shut behind him.

"Can you guys give us a minute alone?" Merlin asked, throwing a thinly-veiled pleading look at Gwaine and Morgana. The former's cheeky grin went ignored, but Morgana's knowing smirk made him feel indescribably vulnerable. They did as asked, however, so he supposed he had to be grateful for small mercies. The door clicked shut, leaving Merlin and Arthur in blessed silence. "I'm sorry."

Pale eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "For what?"

"For everything I couldn't change, everything I couldn't be there for." Knowing he would feel more comfortable once he was no longer sprawling on top a narrow bed, Merlin slowly climbed to his feet. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut against the swirling walls around him. He took several steadying breaths and opened his eyes, taking a step forward. Somehow, he managed to misjudge the distance between his legs and the floor, coming down wrong on his very first step. It was only Arthur's torso and strong arms, suddenly just _there_, that stopped him from toppling on his face, catching him firmly, holding him up.

Convinced Arthur would make a comment about girls and swooning, Merlin was surprised to only hear a quiet, "Idiot." There was a fond note in the word, but a hint of something else, as well. Something Merlin was unable to decipher. Hands fisting and wrinkling Arthur's shirt, Merlin glanced up and felt his heart constrict. The intensity in the man's gaze took his breath away, as clichéd as that was. "There's nothing you need to apologise for," he continued, words soft but sincere, "And if you ever try, I swear I'll punch you."

"Charming."

"Perfectly."

Merlin swallowed thickly – or, rather, he tried to do so; his mouth and throat were just too dry. He grimaced in distaste. "I could use a drink."

Arthur let out a huff of laughter, shifting Merlin around so that he could lean on him for support, one arm slung across Arthur's shoulders. "Come on, then," he said, "before Gwaine thinks we're canoodling."

"I can't believe you just fucking said _canoodling_," replied Merlin, uttering the last word as though it were something dirty. He lost himself to a fit of inappropriate laughter, which only intensified when two spots of colour flared across the former King's cheeks.

"Shut up, Merlin."

To Be Continued

Feel free to let me know what you think; I am all ears.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Man with the Dragon Tattoo – Chapter Seven.

Author: Woodland Goddess

Rated: M

Author's Note: Thanks to everybody's who's been following this fic so far; I hope you've been enjoying it.

Chapter Seven: Somebody's Eyes

When Merlin woke it was to the King of all Hangovers. For several long moments he did not dare move lest he aggravate his self-inflicted condition, but in the end nature called and he struggled to get out of bed, legs still tangled in his sheets. It was only sheer force of will that kept him from falling on his face. Slowly, carefully, his head pounding and his eyes narrowed in a pained squint, Merlin untangled his legs and, clad in only his underwear, staggered out of the bedroom – a room he most certainly could _not_ remember stumbling in to the night before.

He moved around the unfamiliar hallway, pushing open doors, trying to locate the bathroom. Each room he peeked into, however, made him shut the door hastily; there were sleeping men sprawled across the beds, in various states of undress. Normally, his hormones would cheerlead at the sight of such a thing, but these were his friends and they were most certainly off-limits. When he finally found the bathroom, pushing the door open, his jaw fell through the floor at the sight that met him.

Arthur stood there, leaning over the sink, hands braced against the gleaming porcelain. His hair was a tousled mess and his face looked to be freshly shaven. The only item of clothing he wore was a pair of dark blue boxer shorts. Merlin's brain promptly dribbled out his ear, leaving only enough mental faculties to note the way certain muscles were bunched, the way his skin was golden, the way there was a hint of a tattoo visible under the strands of blond hair at the back of his neck, the way there was not even a stray hair dusting Arthur's chest or lower torso. It went so far as to wonder whether there were any providing a nest for his...

The train of conscious thought derailed there, after hurtling around a sharp bend at full speed. All Merlin could do was stare as Arthur swished mouthwash around his mouth a few times before spitting it into the sink, grimacing at the lingering heat and flavour. The man turned on the cold tap and washed it all down the drain. "_Usually_ people _apologise_ for causing a disturbance and walk back _out_ of the bathroom, you know." The tone was light, but even Merlin, hung-over as he was, knew there was something subtle buried in there, though at the moment he could not fathom what it could possibly be.

"Uh..."

Slowly and torturously, Arthur straightened and half-turned towards him, the muscles dancing under his golden skin. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. That damnable smirk; Merlin did not know whether he wanted to kiss it or punch it off his ridiculously handsome, arrogant face. That had always been his problem, that indecision. Blue eyes sparkled with quiet and very mocking mirth. Both, Merlin decided; he wanted to do both. He did neither, of course; he knew better than to try. "A speechless Merlin; I never thought I'd see the day. I'll have to get you drunk more often if this is the result."

"What makes you think my brain didn't flee in terror at the sight of your ugly face?"

If anything, Arthur's smirk broadened at the comment. The man shrugged one shoulder with a grace that Merlin could never achieve. Blue eyes flicked downwards and back up, narrowing slightly, getting closer as Arthur stepped forward. "You look like death warmed over," he said, throwing tact out the window.

"And you'd know," retorted Merlin, eyebrows knitting together in an irritated scowl. Arthur froze mid-step, his entire body tensing, and Merlin stopped breathing as he realised what he had just said. _Just hold me_; the words flashed across his mind, forcibly ejecting all trace of his hangover. Swallowing thickly, he squeezed his eyes shut against the surge of pain and misery and nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Ashamed of himself, he turned his face away. "I'm sorry; that was uncalled for." He told himself his voice held no tremble, though he knew it was a lie.

Without a word Arthur shouldered past him roughly, almost knocking him over, leaving behind a lingering scent of honey, mint and something subtle that made Merlin's cock twitch in interest and his stomach tighten as he inhaled a deep lungful of it. Merlin whirled around, eyes snapping open to see Arthur stalk down the corridor like an angry cat. It was amazing how badly a person could fuck up when they had a hangover. Merlin let his head hit the doorframe, hard, and squeezed his eyes shut as he clenched his jaw. _Idiot_, he thought self-deprecatingly and then felt a little winded, for the reprimanding voice sounded remarkably like Arthur.

Sighing, he slipped fully in to the bathroom and shut the door. He took quick care of his business, washed his hands and rinsed his mouth out with mouthwash several times before retreating to the room he had woken up in. His clothes from the night before were strewn all over the floor. The scent of stale alcohol that still clung to them made him wrinkle his nose in distaste. He reluctantly pulled them on, knowing he had no other choice, leaving his shoes for last. Finally, he ran his hands through his messy hair, attempting to make himself at least somewhat presentable.

He went off in search of the kitchen, only to falter in the doorway. Arthur was in there, dressed in his clothes from the previous day, but still devastatingly beautiful. The man scowled at him and sipped at the steaming cup of coffee he held in his hand. Percy, in the middle of frying breakfast for six people, glanced over his shoulder and seemed to notice the tension that had arisen upon Merlin's arrival. "Take a seat," he said, tossing his head in the direction of the table. Merlin hesitated, eyeing the way Arthur turned his head away, avoiding looking at him completely. It was a painful reminder of Arthur's reaction when Merlin had first showed him his magic.

Eventually, he did as he was told, settling in to the chair opposite his former King. "Any chance you've got some tea bags?" Merlin asked, flicking his gaze in the direction of the gentle giant in an effort to alleviate the weight of Arthur's avoidance. Wordlessly Percy pointed towards a cupboard with the spatula in his large hand. His eyes flashed gold and the kettle moved towards the sink, the cold tap twisting; water filled the appliance. The tap turned itself off once the water had reached a decent level and the kettle returned to its base, flicking itself on immediately.

"Handy trick, that," said Percy idly, glancing at Merlin as a pan full of sausages sizzled in melted butter.

"I don't think so; it's just an excuse to be lazy."

"Arthur –"

"Shut up, Merlin."

"No, I bloody won't shut up, you prat; I said I was fucking sorry. You don't need to attack sorcery just because I put you in a bad mood; you're better than that."

"You guys have a lovers' tiff or something?"

"We're not lovers," protested Arthur, even as Merlin dived in to a rant that went something like this: _How the fuck can you even say that? Arthur's not a bloody man-whore – not much of one, anyway. Plus, Gwen'd have our fuckin' bollocks served on a damned plate if we ever tried – which we wouldn't. She might look cute and innocent, but there's a lion in there waiting to rip my face off for even looking at him sideways!_ The rant might have continued in that manner had Arthur not turned to stare at him like he was out of his mind. "What the hell does Gwen have to do with anything? And too right I'm not a man-whore; I have _some_ class, you know!"

"I – what? She's your fiancée! Lance said you're getting married next weekend! You gave me the invitation to the wedding, just yesterday!"

There was a moment of stunned silence and suddenly Arthur was laughing, the sound warm and bright and doing things to Merlin that he could hardly even explain. The skin around his eyes crinkled as the mirth rolled through him. His body shook. His toned pectorals trembled with the motion beneath his shirt, but only slightly – still, it was oddly hypnotic. Merlin struggled not to stare. Luckily for him, Arthur's head tipped back slightly before his entire body folded, flopping down onto the table for support. Fortunately, he did not knock his coffee. Gradually, the full-bodied laughter devolved to a few snorts before silence reigned once more.

Eventually the man straightened once more and wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. "Oh, Merlin; you are precious." When Merlin only stared in response, utterly blindsided by the remark, Arthur eyed him curiously. "You really have no idea, do you?" The humour had long since dried up, leaving a desert wasteland in its wake. "Gwen's not my..." he started to say, but fell silent, only to try again. "Gwen and I never...let's just say, Lance is and always will be her first choice."

"Arthur..."

The man in question shook his head, his mouth tightening fractionally at whichever thought was now racing through his mind. Arthur said nothing more, opting instead to sip his coffee in relative silence. The discussion was quite clearly over and would not be reopened. The sizzle of meat in the frying pan and the scent of breakfast filled the kitchen, lending a pleasant atmosphere to the room. The kettle boiled during the silence, the click somewhat loud. Merlin's eyes flashed gold and the necessary items began preparing themselves, the finished cup of tea landing gently down on the table in front of him. "So...how did your time with Mr Smooth go, last night?"

"Um, good." His cheekbones flared with an incriminating blush. He ducked his head. "His pick-up lines were fandom-related."

Blue eyes sparkled with mirth. "Harry Potter?"

Merlin grinned, almost to himself, and took a sip of tea. "Supernatural, actually." Arthur's mouth lifted in an amused and somewhat impressed smirk; it was clear he was familiar with the programme. "Although, you know, Harry Potter was mentioned, of course, once I told him my name. It was kind of expected, considering the guy's name was Harry."

"Whose wand is bigger?" The pair of them looked up, startled at the question, to see Gwaine strolling in to the kitchen, the fingers of one hand scratching idly at his lower belly. The brush of fingers against wiry hair was audible as they moved through his happy trail. His eyes were slightly blood shot, the skin around them lightly bruised, but the grin on his face was dirty, as usual. The tart was wearing only his trousers from the day before, which hung low on his hips attractively. If Arthur had not been in the room Merlin's mind might have been blown to pieces.

"None of your business, you pervert."

Gwaine took a seat beside Merlin, half-sprawling across it as he rested one arm against the back of Merlin's chair and one arm on the chair on his opposite side. "Oh, so you found out, then?" A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. He glanced at Arthur. "You should take some lessons from this one, Princess; all work, and no play, makes Jack a dull boy." The man in question glared at Gwaine and then glanced down at his steaming coffee, as if he were contemplating throwing it at him. But he obviously decided Gwaine was not worth wasted coffee and sipped at it instead.

"I didn't find out anything," Merlin protested, that damnable blush returning to his cheeks instantly.

The man actually looked affronted by that piece of information. "Why not?!"

"I –"

Arthur sipped his coffee again, almost casually. "Don't feed the tart, Merlin."

"Fuck off, Arthur." Gwaine aimed a hard kick under the table, but got Merlin instead.

"Ow! You pillock!"

"Now, look what you've done."

"Shite. Sorry, Merlin. I can kiss it better if you –"

"Fuck off, Gwaine," said Arthur and Merlin simultaneously, the latter throwing the former a grateful grin.

"Oh, my God; shut up, the lot of you," groaned Lance, stumbling in to the kitchen with a hand on his head. "Wankers." He looked horrible, but that was no surprise; the man had not exactly taken it easy on the drinks the night before. Percy laughed in the background and Lance groaned even louder, lifting his second hand to his head. "Where's the paracetamol?" The gentle giant pointed to a cupboard with his spatula, just like he had done for Merlin, and Lance grunted his gratitude. He filled a glass with cold water and washed the tablets down in quick succession. He whimpered. "Remind me never to drink again."

"Never drink again," chorused Arthur, Gwaine and Percy. Loudly. It was obviously something that happened every time they went drinking, because the three of them wore a decidedly fond and amused expression on their faces. Lance groaned and claimed that he hated them all. Merlin could hardly help the grin that danced across his mouth; the man was too adorable for words. Gwen was a lucky woman. After a moment Arthur looked at him. "So, Merlin, what are your plans for the day?"

"To go home and house-sit, since I was rudely interrupted last night." He shrugged and sipped his tea. "I might visit Gaius, though; today's his day off and we don't get to see each other as often as I'd like." The way Arthur's eyes lit up was utterly unexpected and made his stomach do an absurd little flip-flop.

"Forget house-sitting," said Leon as he, too, entered the kitchen. "It's been years since I've seen Gaius! We'll all go; we can take the time to stop off to change our clothes and freshen up, though. I can't imagine Gaius would be impressed with us if we showed up smelling like stale booze." Merlin sighed, but he was not bothered enough to argue. In all honesty, he rather enjoyed spending his time with them, though he would never admit it aloud. "And afterwards you can come up to Caerleon with us."

"I don't think –"

"Just face it, Merlin; now that we've found you we're not letting you go. You're ours and always will be," interrupted Gwaine before Merlin could really protest the idea of being dragged up to Wales. "You belong with us and you can't deny it; you've hardly stopped grinning since we absconded with you last night." The others all made noises of agreement and Arthur went so far as to tip his head forward, blue eyes glinting intensely. Shaking his head and smiling, Merlin drank a mouthful of his tea in answer. Though he seemed to be a thoughtless man, who flirted with everything that breathed, nothing really got past Gwaine; he was too observant for his own good.

"You wouldn't believe how much we had to pester Arthur in the early days," laughed Percy, turning the hob off and heaping a plate with fried food. He grabbed several more plates from the cupboard and carried them all to the table, before fetching cutlery and a roll of _Plenty _– just in case. "He thought we were right lunatics when we started following him after we bumped into him at the academy. He cursed like a bloody sailor and punched Gwaine in the face because the stupid git wouldn't stop making comments about his commanding gait and domineering attitude. Claimed he was a Dominatrix in disguise, Gwaine did."

"It was hilarious," continued Gwaine, a grin on his face, "even if he did break my nose."

"You deserved it, you arse," Arthur retorted as everyone began piling food onto their plates. Gwaine and Merlin had a fork fight for the last sausage while the others burst in to raucous cheers, egging on their preferred champions, but the latter cheated and made the former's utensil slip from his hand with a flash of gold eyes. Merlin stabbed the sausage victoriously and grinned cheekily as Gwaine jokingly called him a fucker and went diving to save his fork from the floor. Merlin had never felt more at home in his life.

Lance eyed Merlin over a forkful of fried egg. "Remind me never to let you near a dice game." The egg, then, disappeared into his mouth as he continued to eye him, almost suspiciously.

"Too late," groused Arthur, earning a snort of amusement from Leon and a unified bark of laughter from Gwaine and Percy. The sorcerer flashed a look of wide-eyed innocence at the man but it was ruined when he started chuckling, remembering Arthur's instance that he was throwing him off with his coughing. Breakfast continued in this manner, the men exchanging catty comments and laughing at one another and getting to know each other some more, grinning broadly with a happiness that was felt universally among them.

During the meal, Merlin learned; Arthur had been highly affronted to be offered the role of Santa in a primary school musical and had made his teacher cry with a series of barbed words for thinking he was fat, he had also been named the Godfather of Morgana's daughter, Amber; Leon had fought and died during the Second World War, only to crawl out of his grave three days after his burial and being forced to wait thirty years before coming in to the public eye as his own son – his wife, having remained widowed and unmarried, had been so happy to see him alive that she partook in the farce, as long as she got to spend time with him, for she had missed him so; Lance had met Gwen in a sweet shop, bumping in to her as he rushed to find a suitable gift for Mother's Day; Gwaine had promptly kicked the shit out of a guy that tried to bully him in secondary school, resulting in hero-worship from the previous victims – this did not surprise Merlin in the slightest; Percy had two brothers, one of which was in prison on rape charges. Needless to say, they were not on speaking terms.

Of Merlin, they learned many things; he had signed up for tennis camp when he was twelve and, after a mishap with the paperwork, had ended up in the advanced class by mistake and as a result got bashed repeatedly with tennis balls because he was so woefully uncoordinated; he had his head flushed down the toilet during secondary school – this made Arthur's eyes burn with something that suggested vengeance would be taken but Merlin convinced himself he was misinterpreting the expression; he had once tied his bike – now way, _way_ too small for him – to the back of his father's car and ended up with a broken leg when the car took a sharp turn and he ended up in the ditch.

The men looked as though they were torn between wincing in sympathy and laughing at his misfortune but Merlin was sure the latter was closer to becoming a reality. They always had enjoyed taking the piss out of him, but then he had loved doing the same. He still loved it now, in fact, though he had known them for such a short while in this life. They were the same bonds, written in new manuscripts, but carrying with it that sense of history, that sense of a countdown; it was thrilling...and terrifying. The thought of losing Arthur again, of losing any of them again...it was unthinkable, yet Kilgharrah had claimed his life would always run in a pattern.

After breakfast, those who were still only half-dressed finished doing so and Merlin exchanged glances with Arthur as Percy left the room, muttering about his neighbour's cat invading his flower bed. "I really am sorry, you know," said Merlin as he shoved his empty tea cup away, "for earlier."

"We don't need to talk about it –"

"But we _do_," he insisted, interrupting the man. When Arthur opened his mouth to respond, Merlin raised a hand in the air, a universal indicator that he needed Arthur to let him speak his mind. "I need you to know I didn't mean it the way it sounded. It isn't...I never...I meant everything I said that day; I swear it." Blue eyes burned across the table at him, threatening to rip the breath from his lungs. "I wasn't lying when I said you were my friend, that I couldn't..." Merlin swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut against the rising swell of sentiment as the memories seared across his mind again, etching themselves permanently in to his thoughts.

"Merlin."

The name was uttered so quietly his attention was drawn automatically. His eyes slipped open. Something tender and fragile lived in Arthur's gaze for the briefest moment before it vanished so suddenly it was as if it had never been there in the first place. "Yes?"

"Shut up." With all the grace of a King, Arthur rose from his chair, rinsed out his cup at the sink and put it in the dishwasher, the muscles flexing under his clothes quite noticeably. Merlin called him a prat under his breath and Arthur must have heard, for he smirked on his way out the door. Shaking his head, Merlin moved over to the sink and rinsed out his cup; it quickly joined Arthur's. He sat back down and, smiling, waited for the others to be ready. It was not long at all before they were all piling in to Percy's pick-up, making themselves comfortable.

The first to get the chance to get out of his clothes and have a hasty shower was Merlin, followed by Lance, Gwaine, Leon, saving Arthur for last. Then it was on to Gaius' house, the address of which Merlin did not even need to supply because Gwaine had done some research – he had almost fainted when he heard that and promptly got an elbow in the ribs from the man, who was only jokingly offended. Merlin led the way to the front door, Arthur coming up quickly beside him, a hair's breadth away.

The warmth of his presence, too damn close but also too far away, caused goose bumps to erupt on Merlin's skin. Ignoring his body's reactions to Arthur's proximity to him was quickly becoming a full-time job, just as it had been back in the day. Mouth tightening fractionally, Merlin rang the doorbell. Several moments passed and he was already contemplating the idea of fleeing when the door was wrenched open from the inside. "If you're another bloody salesman, I'm going to kick you in the – oh, hello!"

Gaius blinked in surprise, irritation rapidly fading. The man's face brightened, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "My boys! Come in, come in!" He stepped back and allowed them entrance in to his home. Once the door closed there were many hugs and back-slapping to be had. The most heartfelt embrace was from Arthur, however, who clutched the man tightly, surprising the old doctor. Gaius slapped his shoulder lightly. "It's good to see you, too, Sire. Tea?" The former King inclined his head regally and allowed Gaius to lead them in to the living room.

Something warm settled in the pit of Merlin's stomach. Had Gwen and Elyan been with them, it would have been almost like home. _Like Camelot_, his mind corrected automatically, voice tinged with slight irritation. Home was in London, with his father, not an ancient citadel that had crumbled to dust centuries ago. Gaius disappeared in to the kitchen, pottering around noisily while Merlin and the others settled down in the comfortable and inviting chairs spread out in the living room. He ended up sitting next to Arthur, the man's arm thrown across the back of the couch as if he owned the place.

Merlin glanced sideways at him, discreetly admiring the way the fabric of his shirt stretched tight across his chest. The man's face was slightly turned to the side; he was engaged in conversation with Leon. The shadow beneath the curve of his jaw was tantalising. Swallowing thickly, he tore his gaze away. It would not do to dwell on things...on Arthur, for he was as likely to get entangled with him as Unicorns were to vomit rainbows – and Merlin would know, considering he had met one once...before Arthur killed it, despite Merlin's protestations. It was that realisation, back in Camelot, that had rendered him even capable of speech in Arthur's presence, once he started to get to know him – the real him, not the hardened, arrogant Uther-clone he had tried to be.

The man who would risk his life for that of a servant, the man who believed he served his people as much as they served him, the man who would ask what bothered you though words had never been his strong point, the man who would deign to sit on the floor because a servant was unhappy, the man who would count the days you never smiled; that was the man...the King that Merlin had grown to love. He would continue to love him from afar and in silence, surviving on discreet glances, brief, meaningless touches and the strength of their friendship.

When Gaius returned, bearing a tray laden with tea, sugar, milk, home-made biscuits and scones and muffins, jams, butter and cutlery, Merlin was relieved. His body acting entirely out of lingering habit from his previous life, he shifted forward and lifted the teapot, pouring tea into the assembled mugs, oblivious to the muted startled light that shone in Arthur's eyes. "Cheers, Merlin," said Gwaine, grinning around a mouthful of chocolate muffin as he reached for the cup nearest to him. He poured milk in first and dumped in what seemed to be half the sugar bowl before stirring smoothly.

Merlin stared as Gwaine raised the mug to his lips and sipped, eyes drifting closed in pleasure. Shaking his head, a small smile pulling at his lips, Merlin began preparing his own cup. Beside him, Arthur did the same, taking considerably less sugar and more milk in his tea than anyone else in the room. Merlin helped himself to a blueberry muffin and flicked a glance sideways; the former king claimed a scone, his large hand deftly selecting a butter knife from the pile on the tray. The cutting motions were precise; hardly a crumb was lost in the endeavour. Butter and raspberry jam were generously slathered over the scone-halves.

Everything was done with a masculine grace that left him feeling decidedly envious. Frowning, Merlin broke off a piece of his muffin and popped it in to his mouth, fingers grazing his lips lightly. A blissful smile graced his face, then, for the muffin was _perfect_. Alice had always been a wonderful cook and cake had always been a speciality of hers. Gaius was a lucky man to have snatched her up so early enough in his life; it had taken her off the market for other men with sweet teeth.

Merlin flicked his gaze around the room; Gaius was munching happily on a scone; Leon was devouring a sticky toffee muffin with relish; Percy was going doe-eyed over a scone smothered in marmalade; Lance seemed unable to stop stuffing biscuits into his mouth, chewing contentedly, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. A grin danced across Merlin's face and he was pretty certain his eyes were sparkling in a Dumbledore-esque manner in that moment. If Gwen and Elyan had been there, the moment would have been perfect.

Over tea, they chatted about everything and anything. When Lance mentioned his and Gwen's coming nuptials, Gaius had given him a hug and a congratulatory slap on the back. The man did glance in Merlin's direction briefly, one imperious eyebrow arched quizzically, though the young sorcerer had no idea why. It was not as though Merlin had had anything to do with it; they had been engaged for four years before Merlin had ever waltzed in to _Pendragon Investigations_.

When Arthur had polished off his third scone and a blueberry muffin – much to Merlin's surprise, considering the many times Arthur had shown his insecurity over his physique in the past – the man turned to Gaius and said, "Is there any chance I can get a copy of these recipes? These are the best scones and muffins I've ever had."

Gaius' eyebrows rose in surprise. "You bake?"

Twin spots of faint colour flared on Arthur's cheeks. "No, but Morgana does and she's always looking for new things to try. I visit a lot," he said as calmly as if he was not lying through his teeth. It was impossible to imagine Morgana wearing an apron and oven-gloves, taking trays of cookies and muffins and scones out of the oven like some fifties' housewife.

"Of course," said Gaius, inclining his head. He rose from his chair and looked at Merlin, something subtle but definite burning in his gaze. "Help me look for Alice's recipe book, Merlin," he said, turning to head for the kitchen. Merlin followed after him, thinking the man could not be more obvious. Once they were far enough away from the living room, Gaius grabbed Merlin's arm and gripped tight. He looked up at him severely. "Does Arthur know, yet, about her betrayal?"

Merlin glanced in the direction of the living room. "I'm pretty sure he knows," he replied, looking back at Gaius, frowning down at him.

"Are you certain? He seems to trust her still..."

"Well...he's thirty, Gaius, almost thirty-one," said Merlin, nibbling his bottom lip. "In our last existence he was already fatally wounded at Camlann at this point. I think it's safe to say Morgana's not going to stab him in the back any time soon. She started remembering when she was sixteen; it's been ten years and nothing's happened to him in that time. He's the Godfather to her daughter and the adoptive uncle to Mordred. I'm...I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt...for now."

Gaius frowned thoughtfully and looked towards the living room. "Very well, but keep me apprised of the situation; we may need to act quickly." He moved to a set of drawers connected to the countertop and pulled out the bottommost drawer. There, at the very top of a pile of books, was Alice's notebook filled with her own variations of recipes. "Get me a notebook, would you?" The young sorcerer did so, slipping out to the supply cupboard in the hallway, and returned bearing a fresh notebook.

Gaius took it from him and opened to the first leaf. He held his hands out over the notebooks and his eyes flashed a rusty orange as he muttered an incantation. At once, all of the requisite recipes were magically copied in to the new notebook. Returning the original to the drawer, Gaius closed the new notebook with a snap. The pair of them returned to the living room and Gaius offered the notebook to Arthur, earning a blinding smile that threatened to take Merlin's breath away. _Damnable prat_, murmured a small voice in his head.

The men spent thirty minutes more at Gaius' house, before Leon stood up and declared that they should probably go if they wanted to reach Caerleon in good time. The old doctor walked them to the door and gave each of them a hug goodbye, asking them not to be strangers and to visit every week, where they could. Notebook in the elbow of one arm, Arthur threw the other one across Merlin's shoulders in a manner reminiscent of their days in Camelot. Merlin ducked his head, a grin pulling at his mouth.

"Those scones were really excellent," the man said as they made their way down the driveway, towards Percy's pick-up. "Sometimes, I envy you, Merlin. Twenty-two years of scones and muffins and biscuits from that man's wife. How is it you haven't put on an ounce of weight in all that time?"

"Magic; weren't you listening last night?"

Gwaine snorted in amusement as he climbed into the passenger seat. "The only part he remembers is you flirting with Mr Smooth."

"That's not true," protested Arthur, voice heated. "I remember the fiasco after he bumped into Morgana." Merlin, his cheeks flushed from Gwaine's words, glanced sideways at Arthur as the man dropped his arm from his shoulders. He nibbled his bottom lip for a moment, wondering... He shook his head fractionally; it was none of his business.

"Don't lie, Princess."

"Arse." Everyone piled in to the back of the pick-up, settling down, and Gwaine looked over his shoulder to aim a smirk at Arthur. Up front, Percy opened up the glove compartment and pulled out a shiny silver iPod. He put it in the jack, turned up the volume and pressed play. They pulled away from the kerb to Green Day's _Know Your Enemy_ and began their two and a half hour journey from London to Caerleon. Unbeknownst to them, a man stood beneath the shadow of a tree some distance behind them, taking a drag on his cigarette as he watched them with narrowed eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth...

To Be Continued.

Creepy stalker is creepy.

Feel free to let me know what you think; I look forward to hearing your thoughts.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: The Man with the Dragon Tattoo – Chapter Eight.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Author's Notes: Get a box of tissues and a bowl of ice cream ready. *hides behind cushion*

Chapter Eight: Hysteria

All things considered, the drive up to Caerleon was not too horrendous. True, Merlin had to suffer through the men boisterously singing along – and not always in key, for that matter – to songs for almost the entire trip, but sometimes he would catch Arthur glancing at him in a contemplative manner. He knew there was nothing more than friendship and curiosity in those glances, but they caused butterflies to flutter around in his stomach nevertheless. He cursed his inner schoolgirl repeatedly for being so girly.

They made a pit stop, once, for petrol, a few bottles of water and some light snacks – which included a few bars of chocolate. Merlin was delighted, having had a _Marvellous Creations: Jelly Popping Candy Beanies_ thrown at him by his former King. The grin the young sorcerer aimed at him might very well have blinded him...had Arthur even been looking in his direction at the time; instead, the man was far too busy taking a thoughtful bite out of his _Mars_ bar, eyebrows knitted together in a slight frown.

As if sensing Merlin's gaze, Arthur's eyes dragged upwards, their blue depths falling heavily on his face. He smiled broadly at the man and Arthur's frown deepened, heavy gaze falling away to contemplate his chocolate bar. For some unfathomable reason, which Merlin was unwilling to explore, he felt slighted. Nibbling his bottom lip and frowning, now, he flicked his gaze off to the side, staring out in to the passing landscape as the pick-up pulled out of the petrol station's car-park. He found himself wondering what could possibly be bothering his former King.

Looking down at the bar in his hand, he brushed his fingertips across the smooth wrapper. It was such a small gesture, an almost insignificant one, but Merlin believed the offering of this bar meant something; he just had no idea what that was. He glanced at Arthur, briefly, and looked back at his bar. Shrugging one shoulder ungracefully, he opened the wrapper and snapped off an oddly shaped segment, popping it into his mouth. Almost as soon as he bit into it, the popping began.

It tingled against his tongue, against the roof of his mouth, but it was pleasant enough; Merlin smiled as he popped another piece into his mouth. While he did so, he moved his head in a rhythm as James Morrison's _You Make It Real_ blared from the speaker system. On the other side of the pick-up Arthur was tapping an absentminded rhythm, against the side of the vehicle, with his finger. Now that the men were too busy stuffing their faces to sing along to the music playing, Merlin found he enjoyed the atmosphere.

"You have some of the most girly songs on your iPod, mate," commented Gwaine, speaking around a mouthful of Roast Chicken flavoured Walkers Crisps.

Percy, hands moving on the steering wheel as he guided the pick-up down a new road, smirked playfully. "You know what they say about big men."

"Small brains?" Merlin offered helpfully, eyes twinkling.

Arthur let out a bark of surprised laughter but Percy grinned and shook his head. "No! Big hearts; duh!"

"Clearly Merlin's the biggest man here, in that case," joked Leon, sitting in the front with Percy now, gesturing back towards Merlin with a vague wave of his arm. Lance laughed warmly and Arthur chortled, the skin around his eyes creasing in that way that made Merlin's stomach do somersaults; Gwaine waggled his eyebrows suggestively as his gaze noticeably descended, causing Merlin's cheeks to flush with heat as he shifted awkwardly, trying to escape the man's line of sight. "How many times did you weep over that Unicorn?"

"Yeah, yeah; laugh it up," groused Merlin, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, "arse." He glanced at Arthur, who glanced right back at him. There was a flicker of...something, vibrant but fleeting, vanishing back into the depths of Arthur's blue eyes. They both remembered what had transpired when Arthur had slain the Unicorn; Merlin's hand trembled slightly as he popped another piece of his bar into his mouth; the ghost of a smile danced across Arthur's lips, the sight of it tantalising.

He tore his gaze away from his former King as the pick-up crossed over the River Usk and travelled up Castle Street, onto Mill Street and over onto Usk Road. They followed that road across Afon Lwyd – or the Grey River as it was known in English. Sometime before they reached the crossing at Sor Brook, they came upon a small dirt track which veered off to the right, towards the river, a line of neatly trimmed trees on either side of the track. Percy guided them down that track, the engine rumbling happily. A large house – Merlin would go so far as to name it a Manor – loomed over them, reaching for the sky like an obelisk.

Merlin swallowed thickly at the sight of it; he was definitely too underdressed to set foot inside that building. Arthur shifted slightly in his seat, knee grazing Merlin's leg. The young sorcerer looked at him, at the broad and arrogant smirk that brightened the man's face. "Welcome to Albion Estate," said Arthur, eyes sparkling with humour. The dirt track gave way to a broad driveway blanketed in gravel, crunching under the wheels of the pick-up as it came to a slow stop. Gears were changed, the handbrake was pulled and the engine was shut off, an absurd silence settling upon the vehicle.

Arthur rose from his seat and, with one hand pressed against the ridge, vaulted over the side of the pick-up, landing upon the ground with a crunch. The others followed suit, with Merlin scrambling after them, long-limbed and awkward in their wake. The former King tipped his head back; eyes closed in a mildly blissful manner, Arthur just let the sunshine fall down on him. "Home, sweet home," the man uttered, words tumbling from his lips like a lover's caress. He seemed enshrined in the golden rays and the sight of it threatened to take Merlin's breath away. Chest tightening, he averted his gaze.

A heavyset man came around the side of the Manor, a pair of shears with red handles clutched in his hand. A sunhat was perched neatly on his head; one hand pressed it down as if he were afraid it would be knocked off by the wind. The white facial hair and bushy eyebrows were unmistakable; the man was none other than Geoffrey of Monmouth, the Genealogist of Arthur's former Court and Keeper of the Royal Library. It was hard to imagine him as a gardener or caretaker, yet that seemed to be his role in this life. "Master Pendragon," he greeted warmly as he ambled forward.

"Geoffrey," answered Arthur, a magnanimous smile on his face as he gripped the man's arm, hand clasping just beneath the elbow. Merlin violently beat down the sudden surge of irrational jealousy; he had, after all, seen Arthur greet other men in the same manner. It was not a new action – it was just...Merlin had never seen him greet Geoffrey in this manner. It was different with men of noble birth, with men with knightly traits; it was expected that Arthur greet them like that, lest he offend them irrevocably.

Merlin had been the first and only commoner greeted in that manner; that Geoffrey had been granted the privilege stung. Keeping his expression genial, his mind warred with itself over this new information. Part of him believed that it was an improvement, that Arthur should, of course, greet everyone in the same manner, that some perception of equality should be shown, considering everything that had transpired in their previous lives; but another part of him raged at the idea. "Miss McQueen's waiting inside, sir," continued Geoffrey, bushy eyebrows knitting together slightly in a thoughtful frown as he glanced briefly at Merlin.

He gave the man a half-hearted wave, the action causing the man's frown to deepen. Letting his hand drop, Merlin glanced off to the side. Geoffrey had never been very fond of him; he had always made a mess in the library and the librarian had suffered from mild OCD, which exacerbated the situation. That had hardly changed as Merlin got older, in the wake of Arthur's passing. In all honesty, it got worse. He had spent years in the library after Camlann...searching for answers...for ways to bring his King back.

There were times – after Geoffrey had long since faded from the world – when Gwen, ageing herself, would be suddenly standing over him, clad in her royal raiment, wrinkled face severe in the encroaching darkness. Her expression would soften, dark eyes flicking from the books and scrolls and quills strewn over the table to Merlin's tired form, hunching away from her, unable to bear the sight of her pity. She would touch his shoulder, hand gentle, and he would flinch away from her so strongly he would topple from his chair. Tears would well in her eyes and she would whisper, "Merlin, please; stop this. You can't change the past – none of us can!"

"I'm not trying to," Merlin would snap, scrambling up from where he had fallen. His wrinkled hands would hastily grab the book he had been studying, snatching up his blank scrolls and quills in the process. "The Dragon said Arthur would rise again; I can help with that! Don't you want him back?!"

"Of course, I do."

"Then why aren't you helping me?!"

"Because it can't be done! All you're doing is hurting yourself, Merlin; can't you see that?" The look he would give her, then, would be dark and ugly and she would rear back from him. He would shoulder his way past, storming out of the library in a swirl of crimson fabric. He would feel her dark eyes on him, burning holes in to his back. In those moments, he would be so angry...so full of hatred that it left his stomach in knots, his heart pounding in his chest, an ache in his lungs. And once he had walked off his steam, Merlin would hang his head and squeeze his eyes shut, muttering an apology the Queen would never hear.

Merlin popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth, forcibly pushing those memories to the back of his mind. The popping candy made him feel a hundred times better than he had a moment ago; he made a mental note to thank Arthur for it later. The man in question strode towards the manor. Merlin traipsed after him, almost instinctually coming to walk at his right, slightly behind him. He could feel Arthur's smirk, though he could not see his face. The others followed along behind them, grinning cheerfully.

Arthur pushed the door open and stepped back, gesturing for the others to precede him; it would have been gentlemanly of him, if it had not been for the smug grin on his face – as if he _knew_ it was gentlemanly. Merlin looked over his shoulder at him, giving him a look that clearly said: _I'm on to you_. The smugness faded from Arthur's grin, leaving a more genial expression in its place. Merlin tore his gaze away when his stomach did an absurd flutter at the sight of it; he really needed to nip that in the bud. Really.

He concentrated on eating the odd-shaped segments of his chocolate bar, ignoring the way the length of his back and legs tingled as Arthur came up behind him, pulling the door closed. There was a brush of fabric against fabric, the man's warmth felt along his skin even through those layers. Though goose bumps rose on his flesh, Merlin fought the urge to shudder, focusing on the popping sensations in his mouth with determination. "Nice," he commented, allowing his gaze to inspect the vestibule as he stepped forward, away from the group – the vestibule was larger than average; _what is it with Pendragons and demonstrating their wealth through sheer size_, thought Merlin curiously, eyebrows knitting together slightly.

"_Nice_? That's all you've got to say?" Arthur demanded, sounding offended by compliment.

Merlin turned to face him, eyes glinting with quiet humour. "Well, I used to live in a castle; this is quite a step down." His head tilted slightly to the side, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. Gwaine guffawed but Arthur looked ready to punch him in the face. Instead, the former King opted to tighten his mouth, pick up a ceramic dish of potpourri from the telephone table by the door and fling it at him. As always, he had fantastic aim; Merlin only just managed to duck before it collided with the side of his head.

The dish shattered on the marble floor, the sound unbearably loud in the surrounding silence. Potpourri littered the floor; some of it had landed upon the shoulders of the men. For a moment, they all stared down at the broken fragments. "Nice save, Merlin," snorted Gwaine in amusement. A ripple of laughter followed his remark. "You're supposed to catch things people throw at you."

"Don't worry; I can fix it," promised Merlin.

"You'd better; it's an antique!"

Merlin looked at Arthur in a manner that clearly meant: _Clotpole. _Shaking his head, the young sorcerer held his hand out towards the broken dish. He could feel Arthur's curious and expectant gaze on him but he ignored it to the best of his ability. His eyes flashed a vibrant gold as a muttered word tumbled from his lips. His fingers flexed as the magic worked, bringing his desire to mend the dish to fruition. He summoned it to his hands, cradling it in his palms, his fingers splayed across the cool surface as the strewn potpourri began dancing their way across the vestibule and into the dish. "Good as new," he said, turning to his former King with a smile that was half-self-deprecating and half-pleased.

The expression on Arthur's face was soft, but indecipherable, as Merlin pressed the dish into his hands. The sorcerer's hand rose and rubbed the back of his neck as blue eyes dropped briefly to somewhere about his chin before falling to inspect the dish in silence. "Well," said Arthur after a moment's contemplation, "you're certainly less inept than I thought; congratulations." Blue eyes flicked back up, sparkling with humour. A smirk tugged at his mouth. Merlin, torn between the desire to laugh and to punch him in the face, settled for grinning in response.

"You're still a clotpole, unfortunately. It's okay, though; I'm sure it's only a temporary affliction." He mockingly patted Arthur's shoulder in consolation, earning a burst of laughter from the others. The man batted his hand away roughly, as if the appendage offended him, but the amused grin ruined it. "Come on," said Merlin, tossing his head bossily, "Gwen awaits."

A huff of laughter escaped Arthur, half-incredulous, as he shook his head fractionally. He tapped a finger against his own chest. "This is _my _house, remember?"

"Yeah; now, let's go." Merlin turned from him and moved towards the nearest door.

"That's the armoury," Arthur said sharply, taking several hurried steps to catch up to him. "You won't find Gwen in there, _Mer_lin. The kitchen is _this_ way." With that he latched onto Merlin's t-shirt and jacket, almost ripping them in the process of dragging him away from the armoury, leading him in the right direction. Chortling, the others followed along behind, Gwaine making a cheeky insinuation about kitchen sinks and servitude. That earned him a hard smack, on the back of the head, from Merlin and a half-arsed kick in the shin from the former King who was far too busy laughing to do it right.

When they entered the kitchen – spacious and airy and filled with top of the range appliances and cupboards that would have any kitchen-oriented housewife drooling – it was to find Gwen sitting by the window, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, peering pensively out the sunlit window pane. Her dark hair fell about her face in pretty curls, one tendril touching her cheek gently. Merlin was instantly reminded of the moment he first met her, that day in Camelot; sweet and innocent and lovely, with so much life ahead of her.

A pang of sorrow shot through him as he remembered the changes that had occurred over the course of their lives, how the darkness had affected her, hardened her, allowing her to become the stern and bold Queen she was destined to end her life as. In that moment Gwen looked up, a soft smile dancing across her mouth. She set her mug down on the table and rose from her chair, traces of Queen Guinevere in her every move. With a few steps she was across the room, throwing her arms around Merlin, resting her head against him.

Not once did he hesitate to wrap his arms around her in return; not this time. He squeezed her close, resting his chin on her hair. He felt her smile against his shoulder. Standing there, with his arms around her, with his friends around him, he felt it, that spark of warmth...of belonging. _Home_. "Now, our family's almost complete," said Gwen, still smiling in that soft, warm, peaceful manner. "One day...one day Elyan will be reunited with us and we won't have to search anymore. I hope it comes soon."

After a long moment she pulled back, looking up at him. "It's good to have you here, Merlin." Gwen patted his cheek lightly to emphasise it; the warmth from her hot chocolate seeped into his skin, leaving him feeling mellow. Her smile brightened immeasurably. "You can sit with me, while the others do their thing."

Merlin blinked in bewilderment. "What thing?"

Gwen laughed softly and patted his arm. "You'll see." Eyes sparkling in amusement, she turned to face Arthur. "I can't believe you didn't tell him...didn't brag."

Arthur smirked, folding his arm across his chest; the muscles rippled noticeably. "Woman, I don't need to brag; my brilliance can be seen for itself." Leon snorted at that, the sound quickly morphing in to a cough as Arthur levelled _that look_ at him; the look that had soldiers stumble backwards on the battlefield, barely managing to raise their shield before Arthur's sword sliced and hacked through them. Lance struggled to keep the grin off his face; Gwaine did not even bother to try; Percy ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut as he swallowed a burst of laughter, hands resting on his hips, gripping tight.

"What are you talking about?" Merlin asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

A laughing smile tugged at Arthur's mouth as he slung his arm across his shoulder, hand resting lightly at his neck. "We're going racing," Arthur answered, insanely cheerful, moving forward, his arm half-pushing, half-coaxing Merlin to walk along with him.

"Horseracing?"

"...In a manner of speaking."

"I feel nervous. Should I feel nervous?"

"Merlin, you're always nervous when you think I'm about to do something stupid – which is rare, by the way."

"True," the sorcerer acknowledged, tilting his head just so in order to eye Arthur, his gaze a mixture of worry, suspicion and something vaguely reminiscent of affection. Arthur's answering smirk did not help matters in the slightest. "The nervous part, anyway; I'm not so sure about _rare_. It was pretty common back in the day." The man pinched him, hard, in response and Merlin elbowed him in the ribs. Somewhere behind them Lance was muttering something in Gwen's ear and she laughed, the sound of it insinuating that the subject matter was either dirty or had something to do with Merlin or Arthur. Or both.

"You make me sound old," Arthur complained.

"You're thirty; you _are_ old."

"You're catching up. How old are you now? Twenty-two?"

"I'll always be younger than you, prat; you'll just have to live with the shame of being an old man."

"Fuck off," groused the former King, though he did not really mean it. They stepped outside into the sunshine, the others following along behind them, nattering away about anything and everything. Arthur guided Merlin around the far side of the Manor and the sorcerer stopped in his tracks. There, stretching out before him and looping back on itself, was a race track...but not one for horses. Alongside it was an impressive garage and a set of changing rooms. "Isn't it beautiful," the man asked, a sigh rumbling from his chest.

"Er..." Merlin was unable to form a more coherent answer as he gaped at the track. Grinning, Arthur dragged him towards it, the others jogging to keep up with the former King's furious stride. Eventually, his brain began regaining some functions. "You don't expect me to...ah...race do you?"

Arthur snorted and waved a dismissive hand. "No, don't be stupid; you're not qualified. And you're clumsy. You can sit in the stands with Gwen and cheer me on."

"And if I don't want you to win?" He narrowed his gaze at him.

An arrogant smirk pulled at the Prat's mouth. "I'll throw you in the river."

Laughing, Gwen rescued Merlin from Arthur's arrogance and boorish qualities, linking her arm through his. "Ignore him, Merlin; he's just eager to show off his skills to an appreciative audience. You'd think he'd know better by now." She rested her head lightly against his shoulder. Smiling, he allowed Gwen to lead him over to the stands, where they settled down comfortably, chatting amicably about little things like Alice's homemade muffins and scones and Gwen's upcoming marriage to Lance.

The woman was so excited about it, it was almost painful. He smiled fondly as he listened to her gush about her dress and the flowers and Lance's suit and the colour scheme and pretty much _everything_ to do with it. It was nice, sitting there with her, reacquainting himself with her. While they caught up, Arthur and the other men disappeared into the changing rooms, soon emerging. Merlin almost laughed at the sight of them wearing their expensive-looking protective racing gear. The gear clung to them noticeably.

Laughing and joking around, the men headed into the garage and it was not long at all until Merlin heard the tell tale growl of engines being started. In moments, five racing cars came out of the garage, cruising over the small gravel path that would lead them onto the main track. Several of the cars had had paintwork done; Arthur's red one had a gold Chinese Dragon on each side, their flames converging across the bonnet; Gwaine's blue one displayed an image of the Grim Reaper, scythe in his skeleton hand, standing behind a corset-wearing beautiful woman, whose dark hair was blowing in the wind; Percy's black one had ghost flames on it. Lance's car was yellow with black racing stripes, like Bumblebee from _Transformers_. Leon's was a horrendous orange and written in angry black letters were the words: _Yes, I'm a fucking ginger; problem? _

Merlin snorted in amusement at that last one, covering his mouth with his hand as he squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward slightly in his seat. Gwen patted his arm understandingly, a grin dancing on her face. They watched as the cars lined up at the starting line, engines revving excitedly. There was a motion-censored set of traffic lights hanging over the line, flashing brightly as it counted them down. Opening his eyes, Merlin startled; for a moment, when Leon glanced in his direction, his eyes seemed red. Suddenly, Merlin was unable to breathe. A memory crashed through his mind, drawing him in forcibly.

_Hunched over his desk, his silvery beard rustling against the parchment, Merlin dipped his quill in to the inkwell beside him. Wrinkled fingers of one hand following the words written on the dry page of a large tome, he made careful note of something that struck his interest. It mentioned the use of snake entrails, Balorian Spider eyes, the blood of a Cockatrice and an enchanted mirror, said to be guarded by a sect of Druids in the Mountains of Isgaard. _Soon, Arthur_, he thought_, soon you'll return. _The ghost of a smile touched his mouth at the thought._

_Several candles, almost completely burned through, flickered with vibrant flames. Their fire was the only source of light in the room; that night, the moon was nonexistent save for the tiniest sliver of pale light, but it was hardly worth mentioning. Humming a melody that felt random but made sense to his ears, Merlin worked in silence, perpetually ignoring the space he occupied. After Camlann, Queen Guinevere had legalised magic and Merlin had been promoted to Court Sorcerer. The promotion had led to a shift in living quarters; the tower chambers that once belonged to Morgana had been gifted to him in the hopes that he could override the memories and energies that drenched the rooms._

_Every moment spent there was a bittersweet torture that threatened to overwhelm him, but each day his heart hardened just that little bit more against the pain. The mistakes he had made never lightened their weight, however. If he had just spoken to Morgana...if he had just explained his situation to her...they could have...she would not have – Merlin shook his head sharply, pushing those thoughts out of his head. It would not do to dwell on things he would never be able to change._

_A low rumble echoed in the distance. Pausing, he raised his head, blue eyes flicking towards the window. Another followed. Frowning, Merlin set his quill down, a drop of ink splashing onto the wooden surface of the table. A flash of gold in his eyes summoned his staff to his hand. People thought it was just for show; in reality, he depended on it psychologically. It helped keep the weight of the world from his shoulders. Gripping it tight, he dug the end into the stone floor and rose from his chair._

_He crossed the room, coming to stand by the window. He peered through the glass, eyes narrowed contemplatively. Normally, his magic would tingle beneath his skin whenever a storm was brewing. This time, he had felt nothing. For a long moment, he saw nothing but darkness surrounding the citadel. Then, almost invisible against the darkness, shadows shifted. A lot of shadows. Another rumble sounded and another, in a perfect and consistent rhythm. Then, it hit him; an army was marching on Camelot. Eyes widening with dawning fear, Merlin turned and ran, the necessity for his staff forgotten as he raced through the castle._

_The ageing sorcerer descended through the levels at a surprising speed, considering his age, finding himself bursting through the doors of the Knights' barracks in good time. Merlin froze, rearing back in horror as he took in the sight before him. A Knight lay sprawled across the floor, a blood-stained tear in the fabric of his tunic, in the metal of his chainmail. An expression of surprise was still fixed upon his face. Another Knight was slumped against the wall, blood staining the gold of the Dragon embroidered across the chest of his tunic. _

_Merlin's throat constricted as panic surged. His magic slammed against the restraints holding it back, crying for release, for vengeance. Swallowing thickly, he strode forward, stepping over the body in front of him with as much care as he could manage, leaning heavily on his staff as he did. The further he moved into the barracks, the more lifeless bodies he encountered. He had known these men, had laughed and shared meals with many of them. Their deaths weighed down upon his mind; more lives he had failed to save._

_Heart hammering in his chest, he searched for the bodies he never wanted to discover. Merlin found one of them sitting at a table, a tankard of ale grasped in his ageing hand, an almost serene smile on his face as his head rested gently on the hard wooden surface. There was a strange residue on the man's lips; it was clear there had been poison in his ale. Tears welling in his eyes, Merlin reached out and pressed his trembling fingers to the man's throat. No pulse met his touch. A shaky breath escaped him as two tears slipped down his wrinkled cheeks, losing themselves in his beard. _

_Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, struggling to get himself under control, he brought his hand to Percival's face and closed the man's eyes forever more. The former Knight should not have even been there – he had been relieved of his duty years ago, when his reactions grew too slow and Queen Guinevere feared they would lose him even during something as tame as a round of training. Percival had continued to sneak in, though, despite the many gentle words of discouragement from Leon, Merlin and Her Majesty alike._

_Several more tears slipped down his face at the thought of never being able to discourage him from doing so again. Merlin covered his mouth with his hand as his face contorted with the pain of it. His shoulders trembled and he sucked in a ragged breath. He needed to calm down. He needed to focus; he had work to do. With that in mind, Merlin lowered his head to Percival's and pressed a tender kiss upon his brow, the touch of lips fleeting as he murmured his heartfelt farewell._

_In a swirl of crimson fabric, Merlin turned away from the body and took off, running as fast as his ancient legs could carry him. There was little doubt that his magic aided the endeavour, flooding him with energy. The soles of his boots slapped against the stone as he ran down hallways and ascended staircases. He met no one on his journey and this filled him with fear. When he reached the Royal Chamber he burst through the door without knocking, his magical presence seeming to fill the entire room. _

_His gaze fell upon the twitching body on the floor and his heart stuttered to a stop. Merlin took several stumbling steps and fell to his knees beside his Queen, uncaring that a pool of her blood was soaking through the fabric of his robes, his leggings. His staff rolled across the stone away from him. "Gwen," he whispered, the word choked and pained and needy as he reached for her. His arms slipped around her, pulling her up gently so that he could cradle her in his arms; the change in position caused more blood to seep through the wound in her abdomen, caused the stain on her nightgown to spread further. Her dark skin, wrinkled with age and from severe frowning, had paled considerably before he had even arrived._

_She had moments only, he knew. Weeping anew, Merlin wracked his brain for a suitable spell that could help save her. He had not needed Healing Spells in many years; they had been living in peace for so long. He had forgotten them in the years since their last war. Queen Guinevere's hand clutched his arm tightly, fingers digging in. Her lips parted and the muscles in her throat twitched as she tried to say something, her dark eyes wide with terror and betrayal. A shudder ran down the length of her body and a sound passed her lips, wordless and terrible._

_The light vanished from her eyes, her hand slipping from his arm, and Merlin clutched her face with a trembling hand, as if he could call her back with his touch alone. "Come back," he urged, his vision blurring with returning tears. A strangled sob pushed its way past his constricting throat. "Don't leave me, Gwen; I can't...I can't lose you, too." Merlin hugged her limp body closer to his chest, to his heart, which hammered a rapid rhythm against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut as he buried his face in her grey hair. Rocking with her, Merlin wept and wailed and screamed his grief, as if doing so could somehow change the past._

_A familiar laugh echoed around the room, emanating from behind him. Startled, Merlin dropped Queen Guinevere's body without ceremony and whirled around, straightening as he did so. He hardly had time to recognise the man in front of him before the sharp steel of a blade was thrust through his abdomen, blood surging instantly. Reflexively, his hand grasped the crimson tunic of his attacker, his blue gaze darting upwards to take in the man's face as his lips parted in a shocked and pained gasp. Through his slightly blurred vision, he took note of the ginger locks of hair, of the beard that covered his chin, of eyes that glowed red though they should have been murky green, almost brown. _

_Leon._

_Brave, kind, dependable, immortal Leon._

_The sound Merlin made as he realised an enchanter had gotten hold of the Queen's right-hand man was a sound he had never thought he would make again, not since the passing of Arthur. Even as he shuddered, driving the blade still further through him, the red glow in Leon's eyes faded. Merlin's spindly legs gave way under him and he fell, Leon dropping to the floor with him as the reality of what he had done, while under the enchanter's influence, sank in. There were tears and gasps and words pleading for forgiveness as the Eternal Knight cradled him close, hands fluttering about him with a maniacal desperation. _

_All the while, the army outside marched closer and would soon be entering the lower town. Camelot would fall that night; Merlin knew it in his bones, in his soul. "There's nothing to forgive," said Merlin, forcing the words past his blood-filled throat. "It wasn't...it wasn't you." Leon shook his head sharply, refusing to listen to Merlin's dying words. "It wasn't you," he said again, tone pained and urgent, hand tightening around Leon's tunic. "The Kingdom will fall."_

"_No!"_

"_It will," Merlin ground out through a jaw tight with pain, with realisation. "Get out. You need. To. Get. Out. Take what you can from us and le...leave." A shudder ran through his body and a hoarse noise of agony wrenched itself from his chest._

"_Merlin –"_

"_There isn't much time," the dying sorcerer interrupted. His beard was no longer silvery; instead, it was stained crimson. "Don't let the land forget about us. Don't...don't let them forget about Arthur. Please." Merlin's voice cracked on that last request and it was that, more than anything else, that made Leon cave to his wishes. With gentle hands, the Knight lowered him to the stone floor. With hurried movements, Leon retrieved the Queen's ring, Igraine's sigil, which had lain upon the King's pillow since his death, and the sorcerer's staff._

_Tears streaming down his face, Leon moved towards the door and paused in the doorway, half-turning to look upon Merlin once more. His eyes burned with grief and guilt and love and so many emotions they were impossible to catalogue, but Merlin, though looking in his direction, was not looking at him. There, bathed in white light that seemed to radiate euphoria, stood a man clad in dented armour and cloven chainmail. Though his face was solemn, the light in his blue eyes was welcoming._

_A serene smile danced across Merlin's mouth. A single tear rolled down his cheek. The armoured man raised his arm, hand held out in offering. The sorcerer did not hesitate; he took the King's hand and departed from life as his equal._

Merlin toppled from his seat, hand covering his mouth, earning a startled gasp from Gwen. Hot wetness touched his fingers and he realised he was weeping, just as he had been in the memory. He looked up at Gwen, who stared down at him, wide eyes filled with concern; the dying image of an aged Queen seemed superimposed upon her youthful face. A strangled noise escaped him and he scrambled to his feet, almost falling again in the process. Without a word, he fled, unable to bear the sight of it...of her.

Gwen jumped out of her seat, calling out his name loud enough that even the men, waiting for their green light, must have heard over the rumbling over their engines. Merlin ignored the former Queen in favour of running away, as fast as his gangly limbs could carry him. His heart pounded a furious, if uneven, rhythm against his ribs; his lungs struggled for breath, but he could not stop running. He took no notice of the direction he fled in, of the voices that called out to him in the distance, of the people he passed on his way, throwing strange looks at the crying, fleeing man.

The magic, swirling beneath his skin, guided him on his journey, soothing the burning ache in his limbs as it did so. Unfortunately, it could do nothing for his heartbreak. When he could run no longer, he fell to his knees with a choked sob, his hands grasping at the grass in front of him. Merlin ran a hasty arm across his face, trying to clear his vision of tears. Ahead of him were three mounds, covered in a vast expanse of flowers. The beat of his heart stuttered to a stop at the sight of them as something inside him was struck with recognition.

He crawled forward, limbs flailing awkwardly. Lost in the maniacal grief that overwhelmed him, Merlin tore flowers from the soil that covered the first mound. His actions were violent, sending sprays of brown earth in every direction. His mind knew he was desecrating something special, something precious in both a historical and emotional sense, but he could not stop himself from doing so. He had to know. He needed to know for certain. Once a large patch of flowers had been cleared, Merlin began digging through the earth with his bare hands.

The passing of time went unnoticed; the ripping of his fingernails from his flesh went uncared for. There was nothing save his pain, the need to know, the need to see. Mouth contorted in a grimace, Merlin dug and dug, heedless of the blood that stained his fingers, of the germs that threatened to infect his cuts. In time, the earth gave way to stones, heavy and familiar to the touch. When his fingers ran across the ridges and bumps, his magic pulsed within him, full of warmth and love and _home_.

He ran a hand across his face, unknowingly smearing dirt and blood across his cheek. Huffing from the effort, Merlin gripped the edge of the topmost stone and shoved at it, forcing the heavy thing to turn over. It fell with a thud and a puff of ancient dust that cloyed at his nostrils, filled his lungs. It started a coughing fit that threatened to knock him over. For a long moment, he struggled to get a hold of himself, to calm himself down a little. Eventually, he succeeded. Merlin lifted his head and allowed his gaze to fall upon the stone he had turned.

There, scratched into the surface, was the word: _Gwenhwyfar_...

To Be Continued

*wails in pain* The feels involved in writing this chapter hurt so much.

Feel free to pummel me in reviews; I probably deserve it. 


	9. Chapter 9

Title: The Man With The Dragon Tattoo – Chapter Nine.

Author: Woodland Goddess.

Rated: M

Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay, folks. Thanks to everyone who's been reading/reviewing this fic so far. Writing the last chapter made me cry; hopefully this one will make up for it. Merthur have a small moment...

Chapter Nine: Calls Me Home

Leon was the first to find him, kneeling, tear tracks and blood and dirt on his face as he stared numbly at the other two names he had uncovered. Merlin thought he heard the man speak, but the words were lost somewhere between hearing them and the sounds reaching his brain. Just having the man in his presence brought the tears surging forth once more. Pressing his hand to his mouth, the sorcerer turned his face away. He could not bear to look at him, not when the memories were so fresh, so heartbreaking.

The Eternal Knight dropped to his knees at his side, reaching for his shoulder. Merlin's magic reacted instinctively, striking him hard and fast, knocking him back several feet. Leon lay sprawled across the grass, unmoving save for the rise and fall of his chest; the magic must have knocked him unconscious. He could not find it in him to feel sorry about that as he struggled to keep from weeping further – the skin around his eyes was already red and puffy and tender enough; he did not need to aggravate it any further.

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head sharply. A shudder ran across his shoulders and down the length of his spine, forcing him to curl in on himself. He wrapped one arm around himself, gripping his side far too tightly. "_Mer_lin?" It was that utterance of his name, said in that tone that left a bittersweet ache in his heart, that made him open his eyes, made him lift his head to peer at the man silhouetted by the sunlight lighting up the world around him, casting a halo about his head.

Were it not for the lack of armour, the absence of glinting chainmail, he might have thought it was an illusion of the fallen King, come to haunt him, to torment him. But this man was very real, clad as he was in his racing gear, save his helmet, the expression on his face a convoluted mixture of emotions that Merlin had trouble deciphering. Blue eyes flicked past him, taking in the shredded flowers, the discarded piles of earth, the names etched upon the stones that marked the final resting place of a fallen Queen, a murdered Knight and a Sorcerer of Legend.

Something indefinable burned in the depths of Arthur's eyes as his gaze returned to Merlin's face. "I'm sorry," whispered the sorcerer, cringing away from that look, that tight set of his jaw as it worked, struggling for something to say but finding nothing. "I should have...I was meant to protect them...to protect her." A laugh, half-strangled and half-hysteric, burst forth from him. "It's almost funny; I was charged with all these duties – save Camelot, protect you, unite the lands of Albion, guide magic into a world of equality and justice and kindness – and I failed almost every one of them."

In silence Arthur lowered himself to the ground, sitting beside him, knees slightly bent as he rested his arms against them, hands dangling, fingertips brushing against the protective material enveloping his muscled limbs. The sight might have been a distraction at any other time, but right now words were spewing out of the sorcerer as if a dam had broken. "The Dragon, Kilgharrah, warned me about him, about Mordred – years before Camlann ever came to pass. He told me, plainly, that he and Morgana would join forces, that their union would lead to your death."

Merlin ran a shaking hand across his face. "Kilgharrah told me to kill him, that if I wished for you to live I had to kill the Druid before he joined with your sister. Mordred was just a boy, then; sweet and innocent and filled with so much potential, thrown into a world of chaos and cruelty that he had no control over, no chance in. I couldn't do it, Arthur." He looked at the former King, eyes beseeching even as tears slipped down his cheeks, mingling further with the dirt and blood upon his face. "I couldn't look at that little boy and kill him in cold blood."

When Arthur stretched a hand out towards him, to console him through his pain, Merlin flinched away from the offending appendage sharply. "Don't," he rasped, grimacing at the flash of hurt that flickered across the man's face before it vanished from sight. "Let me finish. Please; I need to get it out, to get it off my chest. You can do...say whatever you like after, just let me finish." The man's gaze roamed his face for a long moment, searching for something unknown, and then he nodded his head solemnly.

"When Morgana first started showing signs of magic, Gaius and I knew; we knew before anyone else, save the Dragon. When she began to turn against Uther, against those she loved, we knew." Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and allowed his head to fall forward. "I wanted to tell you; I knew you deserved to know, that you needed to. Gaius warned me not to, that I needed solid proof or I risked getting executed for besmirching her name, her honour; your father had never been a rational man when it came to such things – it didn't help that, being a lowly servant, my word meant nothing in the scheme of things."

"Don't say that," argued the former King, tone sharp but words softly spoken. The tone gentled as he continued, despite Merlin's previous request for silence. "Your word meant everything to me; it always has." The rustle of Nomex could be heard clearly and quite suddenly Arthur's hand was at the back of his neck, gripping him firmly, tugging him close to his chest. The pose was awkward as he half-sprawled across the man. Merlin's face flushed scarlet beneath the dirt caking his skin, but he was simply too overwrought, too tired to pull away.

Merlin slipped a tentative arm around him, knowing he was taking advantage of Arthur's friendship but unable to find the strength to resist the feelings within his aching heart, for once in his life, his dual existence on the earth. The muscles in Arthur's abdomen twitched beneath the Nomex, as if the man was trying to get away from him, but Arthur did not push him away. Instead, his Nomex-clad hand slipped to the back of his head. The touch was familiar, a bittersweet reminder of the last moments of Arthur's reign.

"Careful," muttered Merlin, keeping his eyes shut with a desperation that left him feeling indescribably pathetic, "I might mistake you for someone with a heart."

A huff of breath, almost laughter, was the immediate response, the hand shifting slightly against his head, fingers slipping between the locks. "And we were having such a nice moment," returned Arthur, tone soft and carrying the faintest hint of a teasing edge.

Mustering his courage, Merlin forced himself to pull away, forced himself to lose the comforting sound of Arthur's heart beating beneath his ear, to lose the warmth of his touch. Of course, the Nomex had been cool to the touch, but the sorcerer knew exactly how warm Arthur's skin could be, knew how warm it would be in that moment. Once he had set himself down more comfortably, arms hugging his knees to his chest, he shook his head, glancing sideways at the man, whose chest was now stained with earth, with faint traces of the sorcerer's blood.

The former King was watching him closely, eyebrows knitted together in a frown as some thought or another passed through his mind, but the expression in his blue eyes was gentle, disconcertingly so, as the corners of his mouth turned down fractionally. Merlin tore his gaze away, opting instead to stare down at the grass before him as he ripped chunks of it away, shredding the soft green blades with restless, dirty fingers. "You don't know how hard it was, not telling you," he said, referring to several things at once, but assuming Arthur would think of their previous topic of conversation.

"When it seemed Camelot would fall to the Knights of Medhir, I was left with little choice. I laced a wineskin with poison and deceived her when I offered it to Morgana. She drank of it and I turned my back on her, until her shocked gasps, her choked breaths reached my ears and I looked at her. The betrayal was written all over her face, burning in her eyes. When I tried to console her, to explain why I had to, she tried to get away." Merlin sucked in a shaky breath and ran a across his face. "She was dying, Arthur; she was dying in my arms and I couldn't...I couldn't save her without jeopardising you."

He hung his head, feeling the shame crawl all over his skin like a swarm of insects. "I couldn't bear the thought of losing you," continued Merlin, his words barely more than a whisper now as he admitted that truth, not for the first time, "and what a cruel irony that it should happen anyway, regardless of how hard I tried to change the course of your fate." A smile tugged at his mouth, then, and he could not, for the life of him, understand why. "Kilgharrah led me to believe that I could defy the prophecy, that your life could be spared; well, the joke's on us, isn't it?"

"Merlin..." The former King began, trailing off after a moment. That was fine. There was nothing he could say, really, to change the truth, to make everything better. Merlin could almost feel the strength of the man's stare, feel the muscles working in his jaw as he searched for something, anything to say. "You should get those hands cleaned up," he said eventually, his tone implying he thought Merlin was an idiot, but that he was fond of him, too. Like always, it left him with a bellyful of butterflies. "They might get infected."

"Right. Keep an eye out, yeah?" The sorcerer got to his feet, wobbled for just a moment as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, and stretched his hand out towards the graves. Knowing Arthur would alert him if anyone should come towards him, Merlin allowed the magic to swell within him, channelling it down through his arm. His eyes flashed gold and the graves began mending themselves, stones resettling, earth and grass and flowers coming to cover them like a loving blanket.

His face twitched and he let his arm fall as Arthur's hand found his shoulder, squeezing almost imperceptibly, an attempt at consolation that left him feeling hollow. For a moment he cursed the Nomex that covered Arthur's skin, but then found himself feeling grateful for it; it provided an extra barrier between them. At least, in this lifetime, he would never have to suffer through dressing and undressing the former King every day, tortured with the knowledge that he could never truly enjoy the way his fingertips grazed against his skin, smooth and stretched taut over strong muscles that rippled with his every movement.

The way Arthur had stared at the wall had often hurt fiercely, but those rare moments when he would look at him were a hundred – no, a _thousand_ times worse. His gaze was always dark with something that Merlin could never figure out, but always caused his abdomen to erupt in girly butterflies. To keep the incriminating blush off his face, Merlin had forced himself to remember the execution that had occurred the day he arrived in Camelot. That was always an instant turn-off.

Shaking his head, Merlin turned away from the graves, stepping back from Arthur's touch. Without a word, he walked over to Leon and held a hand out over him. Leon groaned groggily, body twitching noticeably, as Merlin's eyes flashed gold. Slowly, the Eternal Knight opened his eyes, blinking up at him blearily. "That's the last time I try to comfort _you_, Merlin," he said, aiming for humour but seeming to fall embarrassingly short of the mark.

A reluctant smile tugged at the sorcerer's mouth. He offered Leon his hand and the man took it in an instant. Arthur ended up having to join him in the effort to pull Leon up from the ground, good-naturedly calling Merlin a weakling in the process. On their way back to the Manor, Merlin allowed the former King to stride ahead, choosing to fall into step beside Leon. "Do you still have them?" he asked quietly, glancing up at the taller man. Judging by the tensing of Leon's shoulders, the answer was an affirmative. "May I...look at them...sometime?

Leon frowned down at him. "I don't see why not; it's not like I own them or anything. I'm just...a temporary caretaker. I was planning to give them back once Arthur remembered everything."

"Even the staff?"

"Well, no, obviously not; that's yours. I made sure to keep it in good condition; I knew you'd return someday." The man fell silent, then, looking off into the distance. Silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and heavy, until Leon spoke again. "It's my fault Camelot fell. There was a girl," he admitted quietly, not looking at anyone or anything in particular, "a woman that came in on one of the ships, having travelled from the eastern lands. She was beautiful in an unattainable way, seemed amazing and made me laugh in ways I hadn't before. At night she'd sing into my ear, strange words she claimed were the words of her people."

Merlin's shoulders tensed as they walked together. It sounded disturbingly similar to the Sophia fiasco that had happened to Arthur, but he was surprised he had never realised anything was wrong with Leon. The signs should have been obvious. It was, then, that he realised that the signs _would_ have been obvious...if he had not been too wrapped up in the death of his King, the need to bring Arthur back from Avalon. His stomach churned at the thought. "You weren't to know," said Merlin softly, eyes on the ground ahead of him, "but I should have."

"No one blames you," answered Leon, tone sharp as a blade. Casting a furtive glance towards Arthur, who was walking on ahead, utterly oblivious to the uncomfortable conversation taking place in his wake, the Eternal Knight gentled his tone. "Arthur was always the one who mattered most to you; we all knew it." Heat filled his ears and cheeks at that, extending down his neck in an embarrassing display of colour. "Gwen knew it. To be honest, I think she knew before you did, before any of us did."

"Oh, God."

A bark of laughter escaped Leon, which he quickly stifled as Arthur glanced over his shoulder at them, frowning suspiciously. "Seriously, though; Gwen, after imbibing copious amounts of alcohol at one of the feasts, confessed that she felt guilty whenever she was with you, knowing how you felt about our resident prat."

The flush on his face deepened immeasurably. "Can we _not_ talk about this?"

"Why not? It's hilarious." But the man allowed the subject to drop regardless, walking beside Merlin at a steady pace. Neither of them said anything more, the pair of them weighed down by confessions and thoughts and feelings that were best left unvoiced. The sorcerer found he was glad to have somehow sacrificed his immortal existence, though he did not, yet, know how he had done so. Merlin was certain the answer would be revealed to him at some point; everything else was starting to knit together to form the bigger picture, memories awakening while he was still in his waking hours, half of the time they did not surprise him like the one of his own death had.

Up ahead, Arthur started whistling. The notes were clear and warm, caressing Merlin's eardrums almost like kisses. With a start, he realised he recognised the melody though it had no name; it was the same one Merlin had been humming the night he died. His throat tightened as his mouth dried up, hands clenching at his sides as his palms began to sweat. It had to be an unknown connection between them in the former King's subconscious, like it had been a subconscious recollection when Merlin had gotten his tattoo – one part of a triskelion.

It was not as though Arthur had been there, had been _alive_, when Merlin had been humming that tune. He nibbled his bottom lip, blue eyes flicking upwards to gaze at Arthur's back in the distance. Unless, he _had _been there, watching over him. It was disconcerting that the idea left him with warm, fuzzy feelings rather than a sense of paranoia. The image of Arthur bathed in white light returned to his mind's eye, the hand held out in offering, the welcoming eyes. Shaking his head, Merlin let his gaze fall back to the ground ahead of him.

Being in Arthur's presence was indescribably wonderful and absolutely terrible at the same time, as it had always been, but at least in Camelot he had had years to get used to that idea. In this existence, he had hardly been given a week to acclimatise to the thoughts and feelings the man's presence produced in him. Now...now, Arthur was like a hurricane, wild and exciting and so damned new, leaving devastation in his wake without even intending to. It was exceptionally aggravating and Merlin knew there was no reprieve in sight.

They were almost at the Manor when Merlin offered a few brief words to Leon before quickening his pace, falling into step beside Arthur. "I should have asked before; how did your race go?"

The former King glanced sideways at him. "It didn't," Arthur answered, his voice soft though the frown on his face indicated an underlying irritation. "We heard Gwen yelling at you; I stopped the race." The faintest hint of colour flared in his cheeks. "I...I went after you."

An amused and partly fond smile tugged at the corners of Merlin's mouth. "You were worried about me."

"No," Arthur corrected. "I was irritated that you weren't sticking around to see me wipe the floor with the others."

A huff of laughter escaped him. "I'm fairly sure your ego doesn't need any more stroking." When Merlin elbowed him in the ribs, harder than he intended, the man elbowed him back, a handsome and arrogant smirk on his face. The darkness, the one Merlin remembered from those glances back in Camelot, burned in the man's eyes. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but Merlin cut him off. "I'm sorry for disrupting your race, though; I know you were looking forward to it."

Arthur shook his head, gaze returning to inspect the looming Manor ahead of them. "Don't worry about it; we'll be back up here for Gwen's wedding anyway. You can watch a race, then. I might even take you for a ride." Merlin's abdomen twisted sharply at those words, an image flashing across his mind unbidden. Naked flesh, sweat-soaked blond hair, eyes dark with lust and ragged breathing filled his mind's eye; it took all of the sorcerer's will power not to react to the visual bombardment occurring in the depths of his own head.

The former King, oblivious to Merlin's inner turmoil, slung his arm across his shoulders, hand resting by his neck. Merlin bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, concentrating on the coppery taste of it, on the throb of pain in the torn flesh. He was terrified by the idea that Arthur could feel the fast staccato beat of his heart, pulsing against his fingers, through the Nomex. Giving the man a small smile, he said, "I can't imagine I'll be impressed, but alright, if that's what you want."

"Oh, you'll be impressed," answered Arthur, smirking arrogantly at him. "I am King of the Track."

Merlin snorted in amusement. "As opposed to King of the Court? Oh, how the mighty have fallen." He might have said something further on the matter, but was distracted by Gwen stepping out of the Manor and rushing out to meet them. For the second time that day she gave him a hug, this one slightly more exuberant than the previous one. When she scolded him, Merlin offered an immediate apology and a brief explanation, which she accepted with a solemn nod of her head.

Upon noticing the state of his hands, his fingers, Gwen grabbed his wrist and dragged him away, ignoring his protestations. She led him to one of the bathrooms, while Arthur and Leon joined the others in the kitchen. "Sit there," she ordered, the stern tone of a Queen coming through. Obediently, Merlin put down the toilet lid and sat on it, though he did claim he could take care of himself. Gwen would have none of it, however. Sighing, Merlin allowed the woman to take his hands in hers, to gently wash away the dirt and blood staining his fingers, his palms.

He could not help but flinch when the water and soft cloth touched the tender flesh where his nails had once been. "Sorry," Gwen muttered, giving him a kind look as she gentled the motion of her hand. Merlin shook his head and nibbled his bottom lip. He had suffered worse pain than this before; Merlin was unable to fathom why it affected him so much. Once his hands were clean, Gwen dabbed on some anti-septic which made him want to yell at the sudden, though expected sting of it. Carefully, she bound his fingers with small rolls of bandages.

"Thanks."

"Don't worry about it, Merlin." She wrung her hands nervously. "I'm sorry you had to remember the way you did; mine came as a nightmare. Lance was there to comfort me afterwards. So, I guess I was luckier that way."

"What makes you think I wasn't comforted?" Merlin asked, raising his head to frown at her.

"I...well...I didn't mean that. It's just..."

"What?" Merlin stood up, feeling irritated. "Arthur mightn't care for me the same way Lance cares for you, but that doesn't mean he's completely incapable of offering comfort when he thinks it's called for. Sure, he's a bit emotionally stunted, but he did his best and that's what matters." Shaking his head, he ran a bandaged hand through his hair. "So, yeah, I was comforted and it bloody well meant a lot to me!" Flushing, suddenly, as he realised just what he had said, Merlin ducked his head.

A startled and fond laugh reached his ears. "Oh, Merlin, I missed you," Gwen announced cheerfully, linking her arm around his elbow, her hand warm even through his clothes. She tugged him out the door, ignoring his grumbled protests as she led him back down to the main part of the Manor. "It hasn't been the same without you; there was no one to knock Arthur down a peg and survive the encounter. But now that you're here, he's starting to mellow out again. It's wonderful, isn't it?"

"I guess," answered the sorcerer slowly. He glanced at her sideways, wondering where this conversation was going. "I didn't really make that much of an impact; the King was always in there. He was just waiting to come out of the...er...closet, for lack of a better word." _The closet, really? God, I need to come up with better analogies_, Merlin thought, his eyebrows knitting together in a frown. Gwen hummed contemplatively, but remained silent on the matter, though an amused smirk did quirk one corner of her mouth.

When they finally reached the kitchen it was to find the men had changed back into their regular clothing. That guilt at having ruined their day returned, though he struggled to keep it at bay. It was not exactly his fault that a memory decided to unlock itself inside him. They did not seem bothered by it, though; in fact, Gwaine slung a concerned arm around him and asked if he was alright. "I...I'm fine," Merlin replied, looking anywhere but at Arthur and Leon. "Really. I was just taken by surprise, I guess."

"Well, just know that if you ever need a comforting snuggle, I am readily available," the former Knight said, grinning and winking at him.

Merlin's face flushed scarlet as he spluttered, half-indignant and half-amused. "Never thought I'd say it, but Arthur was right; you _are_ a shameless tart," he said, batting Gwaine's arm away sharply, though it was softened slightly by the fact that he could not stop the grin that stole across his mouth. Laughter erupted in the kitchen, then, as Gwaine threw Merlin a wounded look, rather reminiscent of a kicked puppy. The expression hardly lasted a moment before he was laughing, too.

Arthur was just about to say something as the laughter died down when Merlin's phone started ring. "_It's funny how the walk of life can take you down without a fight. So many years can lay behind, regretfully, until it's time to realise the moment...when you turn around; I'm coming home...to breathe again...to start again; I'm coming home from all the places I have been with nothing but a voice within...that calls me...calls me home." _Embarrassed, Merlin retrieved his phone from his pocket and fumbled in the act of answering it, hastily cutting off Shannon Labrie's voice.

"Where the fuck are you?" Will asked before Merlin could even offer a word of greeting. "I've been fucking sitting outside your fucking house for ages. I checked with Alice; she said you had the fucking day off. What the fuck have you done now, you pillock? Do you know how fucking worried I've been? Freya's practically in hysterics! You're not off on some half-cocked fucking rescue mission are you, because if you are I'm going to kick you in the fucking bollocks for not even bothering to speak to me first, you fucking stupid prick."

"Hi, Will; it's nice to hear from you, too, by the way." Squeezing his eyes shut against a headache that would surely occur, the sorcerer replied to the initial question, "I'm in Wales."

Will was in the middle of a stream of loud, inventive curses that made Merlin wince when Arthur plucked the phone from his grasp. The former King brought it to his ear. "William," he said cheerfully, though there was a large side of arrogance accompanying his tone. The continued expletives, if somewhat muffled, could be heard by everyone in the room. "I abducted him. Well, me and my men, at any rate. You don't need to worry about him; Merlin's fine – he's nice and distracted. He'll be home in a few hours, so you can untwist your knickers."

Arthur grinned in amusement as Will launched in to a whole new round of curses and promptly hung up. Merlin put his face in his hands. "I can't believe you did that, you arse. No, actually, I can." He shook his head and peered at Arthur through his fingers; the man was doing something with his phone, frowning down at it as he typed something in. "What are you doing?"

His head still tilted, Arthur lifted his gaze. Blue eyes sparkled warmly. "You'll see."

"You damage it, clotpole, and I'll break your face."

Arthur scoffed. "I'd like to see you try." Merlin's eyebrows rose towards his hairline and, realising his words could possibly be seen as a challenge, Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "You needn't worry; I know my way around today's technology, Merlin. I'm not a caveman."

Lance snorted and the former King punched his arm, hard, in response. "You just proved my point, mate."

"Fuck off." Laughing, the group abandoned the kitchen and made their way to the front door. Sidling up to Merlin, Arthur pressed the phone back in to his hand. "See? No damage." Eyeing the man suspiciously, Merlin searched through his phone, looking for anything that indicated Arthur had been tampering with it. His stomach performed a somersault when he came across a new number in his list of contacts, under the name: _Prince Charming_. What began as a chuckle morphed into a full-bodied laugh that left him breathless and wobbly on his feet.

"I'm surprised my other contacts didn't delete themselves to make room for your ego."

"Come on, now; I demoted myself to merely a Prince. That has to be a point in my favour."

Merlin patted his arm mockingly, though the effect was ruined by the amused smile on his face. "That you managed such humility is miraculous." They continued to banter like that on the way to the pick-up truck, broken briefly by Arthur telling Geoffrey to make sure he locked the Manor up before retiring for the day. Once they were settled in the pick-up Percy started the engine and they were off, laughing and chatting and bickering as they made their way back to London. When they pulled up outside Merlin's house he was surprised when Arthur hopped out alongside him. "You know, I'm not incapable of reaching my door if you're not around."

Arthur shrugged his shoulder with Kingly grace as he walked him to the door. Merlin had just unlocked the door when the man spoke, words quiet but sincere. "I'm glad you were with us today, Merlin." The sorcerer, hand still on the door which was now ajar, glanced at him. "I know I said that we'd start again, not base our relationship on our previous one, but that obviously didn't work out very well." A muscle jumped in Arthur's cheek as his jaw clenched briefly. Watching him, Merlin realised the man was struggling to find the words to say something.

Merlin's hand fell from the door as he turned to look at Arthur properly. Words were about to tumble from Arthur's lips when a song was heard. The pair of them glanced around in confusion and dawning embarrassment when Amanda Seyfried's voice could be heard, accompanied by exceptionally chipper music. "_Honey, honey; touch me, baby. Uh huh. Honey, honey; hold me, baby. Uh huh. You look like a movie star, but I love just who you are. And, honey, to say the least you're a dog gone BEAST._"

Back in the pick-up truck, Gwaine was in hysterics, laughing his arse off and pointing to the living room window, causing the others to look and start laughing with him. Merlin glanced in the direction of the window and wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Freya was standing by the window, grinning encouragingly, giving him two cheerful thumbs up. His hand pressed to his face, Merlin shook his head slowly, utterly mortified. "I'm sorry. I am so, _so _sorry, Arthur. That's my friend, Freya; she is really..._really_ disturbed in the head right now."

Somehow, Merlin managed to find the strength to look at Arthur through his fingers. The consolation prize for his humiliation was that the former King looked as mortified as he felt. "Well," Arthur replied, searching for words while scarlet stained the ridges of his cheeks, "that's good. Well, not good exactly but you know what I mean."

"Right."

"I...stop by the offices tomorrow," the man continued, hands disappearing behind his back as he gave what sounded unremarkably like a command, "around half-six in the evening. That should give us plenty of time; I know a place that will let us in after hours. The proprietor was a Knight in another life."

Merlin looked up sharply. "Plenty of time for what?"

Arthur looked at him as though he were an idiot. "Gwen's wedding is next weekend; you'll need a suit. I'm taking you shopping because your taste in fashion is undoubtedly atrocious. I can't have you embarrassing m – us at the church or the reception." The former King said nothing further on the matter, choosing instead to turn on his heel and stride away. For a long moment Merlin stared after him, unable to believe what just happened, and then he slipped inside and stomped in to the living room. Freya was _so _dead.

To Be Continued.

Oh, Freya, Merlin is so not happy with you. Lol.

Feel free to let me know what you think, guys!


End file.
